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J.  M.  BARRIE 


AUTHOR  OF   "THE   LITTLE    MINISTER,"    "  AULD   LICHT  IDYLS,"    "A  TILLYLOSS 
SCANDAL,"   "A  WINDOW  IN  THRUMS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

LOVELL,  CORYELL   &   COMPANY 

5  and  7  East  Sixteenth  Street 


Copyright,  1893, 

BY 

UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY, 


[All  rights  reserved.] 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Two  of  Them, 9 

Our  New  Servant, 23 

Reminiscences  of  an  Umbrella,    -   .        .        .        .        .31 

The  Inconsiderate  Waiter, 39 

The  Playwright  and  the  Fowl,       .....     69 

The  "  Fox-Terrier  "  Frisky, 74 

The  Family  Honor, 81 

The  Wicked  Cigar, 91 

The  Result  of  a  Tramp  in  Surrey,         .        .        .        .97 

My  Husband's  Book, 104 

A  Lady's  Shoe, 113 

Was  It  a  Watch  ? 136 

"The  Man  from  Nowhere," 144 

A  Holiday  in  Bed, 149 

Is  It  a  Man  ? 159 

A  Woodland  Path, 181 

Woman  and  the  Press, 187 

A  Plea  for  Smaller  Books, 192 

Boys'  Books  :  their  Glorification, 197 

The  Lost  Works  of  George  Meredith,       .        .        .       204 
The  Humor  of  Dickens,      ...;...  210 


M609359 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Gretna  Green  Revisited,       .        .        .        .        .        .       218 

Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men,     .        .        .  235 

Ndintpile  Pont  (?), 244 

To  the  Influenza, 250 

Four-in-Hand  Novelists, 255 

"Q," 263 

Rules  for  Carving, 270 

What  is  Scott's  Best  Novel  ? 272 

My  Favorite  Authoress, 277 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FACING 
PAGE 

"  I  WANT  YOU  TO  FILL  MY  PIPE,  AND  RAM  DOWN  THE  TO- 
BACCO  WITH   YOUR    LITTLE  FINGER."      u  VERY  WELL  ; 

giye  it  me.     This  way  ? "   .        .        .        .       Frontispiece 

Someone  was  leaning  oyer  me,  to  look  out  at  the 

window, 42 

In  the  library  I  found,  to  my  surprise,  William  on 
a  ladder  dusting  books, 50 

"i  was  to  do  like  this,"  she  replied,  and  went 
through  the  supping  of  something  out  of  a 
plate  in  dumb  show, 54 

Disagreeable  circumstances,  therefore,   compelled 

me  to  take  tea  with  a  waiter's  family,       .        .      64 

Who  is  sometimes  to  be  found  in  his  arm-chair,  by 

the  fire,  toying  with  a  lady's  shoe,     .        .        .112 

Next  day,  notwithstanding,   she  was  back  at  the 

WINDOW, 116 

"LOYE    OF    MY    LIFE,"    BEGAN    TOM,     THEN    KISSED    HER 

HAND, 130 

He  sat  up  excitedly,  rubbed  his  hands  NERYOUSLY 
on  his  trousers,  and  peered,  not  at  the  stage, 
but  at  the  wings, 158 

"i  used  to  be  in  the  profession  myself,"  he  said, 

sighing,  "Iam  Jolly  Little  Jim,"  .        .        .        .166 


TWO  OP  THEM. 

She  is  a  very  pretty  girl,  though  that  counts  for 
nothing  with  either  of  us,  and  her  frock  is  yellow 
and  brown,  with  pins  here  and  there.  Some  of  these 
pins  are  nearly  a  foot  long,  and  when  they  are  not 
in  use  she  keeps  them  in  her  hat,  through  which  she 
stabs  them  far  down  into  her  brain.  This  makes  me 
shudder ;  but,  so  is  she  constructed  that  it  does  not 
seem  to  hurt,  and  in  that  human  pin-cushion  the 
daggers  remain  until  it  is  time  for  her  to  put  on  her 
jacket  again.  Her  size  is  six-and-a-quarter,  and  she 
can  also  get  into  sixes. 

She  comes  here  occasionally  (always  looking  as  if 
she  had  been  born  afresh  that  morning)  to  sit  in  the 
big  chair  and  discuss  what  sort  of  girl  she  is,  with 
other  matters  of  moment.  When  she  suddenly  flings 
herself  forward— clasping  her  hands  on  her  knee — 
and  says  "  Oh !  "  I  know  that  she  has  remembered 
something  which  must  out  at  once  or  endanger  her 
health ;  and  whether  it  be  "  I  don't  believe  in  any- 
body or  anything — there!"  or  "Why  do  we  die  so 
soon  ? "  or  "  I  buy  chocolate  drops  by  the  half- 
pound,"  I  am  expected  to  regard  it,  for  the  time 
being,  as  one  of  the  biggest  things  of  the  day.    I 


10  TWO  OF  THEM. 

allow  her,  but  no  other,  to  mend  my  fire  ;  and  some 
of  her  most  profound  thoughts  have  come  to  her 
with  a  jerk  while  holding  the  poker.  However,  she 
is  not  always  serious,  for,  though  her  face  is  often  so 
wistful  that  to  be  within  a  yard  of  it  is  too  close  for 
safety,  she  sometimes  jests  gleefully,  clapping  her 
hands ;  but  I  never  laugh,  rather  continue  smoking 
hard ;  and  this  she  (very  properly)  puts  down  to  my 
lack  of  humor.  The  reason  we  get  on  so  well  is 
because  I  treat  her  exactly  as  if  she  were  a  man,  as 
per  agreement.  Ours  is  a  platonic  friendship,  or,  at 
least,  was,  for  she  went  off  half-an-hour  ago  with  her 
head  in  the  air. 

THE  BAEGAIN. 

After  only  one  glance  in  the  mirror,  she  had 
spread  herself  out  in  the  big  chair,  which  seems  to 
me  to  put  its  arms  round  her.  Then  this  jumped 
out: 

"  And  I  had  thought  you  so  trustworthy  !  *  (She 
always  begins  in  the  middle.) 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  I  asked,  though  I  knew. 

"Yesterday,"  she  said;  "when  you  put  me  into 
that  cab.     Oh,  you  didn't  do  it,  but  you  tried  to." 

"  Do  what  ?  " 

She  screwed  her  mouth,  whereupon  I  smoked 
hard,  lest  I  should  attempt  to  do  it  again.  But  she 
would  have  an  answer. 

"  Men  are  all  alike,"  she  said,  indignantly. 


TWO   OF  THEM.  11 

"And  you  actually  think,"  I  broke  out,  bitterly, 
"  that  if  I  did  meditate  such  an  act  (for  one  brief 
moment),  I  was  yielding  to  the  wretched  impulses  to 
which  other  men  give  way  !  Miss  Gunnings,  do  you 
know  me  no  better  than  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  mean/'  she  replied.  (Her 
directness  is  sometimes  a  little  annoying.) 

I  wagged  my  head  mournfully,  and  there  ensued 
a  pause,  for  I  did  not  quite  know  what  I  meant  my- 
self. 

"  What  do  you  mean ! "  she  asked,  more  gently, 
my  face  showing  her  that  I  was  deeply  hurt — not 
angry,  but  hurt. 

I  laid  my  pipe  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  speaking 
very  sadly,  proved  to  her  that  I  had  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  other  young  men,  though  I  forget  now 
how  I  proved  it.  If  I  seemed  to  act  as  they  did  my 
motives  were  quite  different,  and  therefore  I  should 
be  judged  from  another  standpoint.  Also  I  looked 
upon  her  as  a  child,  while  I  felt  very  old.  (There 
are  six  years  between  us.) 

"  And  now,"  said  I,  with  emotion,  "  as  you  still 
think  that  I  tried  to— to  do  it  from  the  wretched, 
ordinary  motive  (namely,  because  I  wanted  to)  I 
suppose  you  and  I  must  part.  I  have  explained  the 
affair  to  you  because  it  is  painful  to  me  to  be  misun- 
derstood. Good-by,  I  shall  always  think  of  you 
with  sincere  regard." 

Despite  an  apparent  effort  to  control  it,  my  voice 


12  TWO  OF  THEM. 

broke.  Then  she  gave  way.  She  put  her  hand  into 
mine,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  asked  me  to  forgive 
her,  which  I  did. 

This  little  incident  it  was  that  showed  her  how 
different  I  am  from  other  men,  and  led  to  the  draw- 
ing up  of  our  platonic  agreement,  which  we  signed, 
so  to  speak,  that  afternoon  over  the  poker.  I  prom- 
ised to  be  to  her  such  a  friend  as  I  am  to  Mr. 
Thomson ;  I  even  undertook,  if  necessary,  to  scold 
her  though  she  cried  (as  she  hinted  she  should  prob- 
ably do),  and  she  was  to  see  that  it  was  for  her  good, 
iust  as  Thomson  sees  it  when  I  scold  him. 

A  NECESSARY  CONSEQUENCE. 

"  I  shall  have  to  call  you  '  Mary.' " 

"I  don't  see  that." 

f  Yes,  it  is  customary  among  real  friends.  They 
expect  it  of  each  other." 

I  was  not  looking  her  in  the  face,  so  cannot  tell 
how  she  took  this  at  first.  However,  after  she  had 
eaten  a  chocolate  drop  in  silence,  she  said : 

"  But  you  don't  call  Mr.  Thomson  by  his  Christian 
name?" 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"And  he  would  feel  slighted  if  you  did  not ?  " 

"  He  would  be  extremely  pained." 

"  "What  is  his  Christian  name  ?  " 

" Thomson's  Christian  name?  Oh,  his  Christian 
name.    Thomson's  Christian  name  is— ah— Harry." 


TWO  OF  THEM.  13 

"  But  I  thought  his  initials  were  J.  T.  ?  Those 
are  the  initials  on  that  umbrella  you  never  returned 
to  him." 

"  Is  that  so !  Then  my  suspicions  were  correct, 
the  umbrella  is  not  his  own.    How  like  him !  * 

"  I  had  an  idea  that  you  merely  called  him  Thom- 
son?" 

"  Before  other  people  only.  Men  friends  address 
each  other  in  one  way  in  company,  but  in  quite 
another  way  when  they  are  alone." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  it  is  customary." 

"If  it  were  not  I  would  not  propose  such  a 
thing." 

Another  chocolate  drop,  and  then, 

"Mary,  dear " 

"Dear!" 

"That  is  what  I  said." 

"  I  don't  think  it  worthy  of  you.  It  is  taking  two 
chocolate  drops  when  I  only  said  you  could  have 
one." 

"Well,  when  I  get  my  hand  into  the  bag  I  ad- 
mit— I — I  mean  Thomson  would  have  not  been  so 
niggardly." 

"  I  am  certain  you  don't  call  him  '  Harry,  dear.' " 

"  Not,  perhaps,  as  a  rule,  but  at  times  men  friends 
are  more  demonstrative  than  you  think  them.  For 
instance,  if  Thorn — I  mean  Harry — was  ill " 

"  But  I  am  quite  well." 

"  Still,  with  all  this  influenza  about " 


14  TWO  OF  THEM. 


HEE  BACK. 


She  had  put  her  jacket  on  the  table,  her  chocolate 
drops  on  the  mantelpiece,  her  gloves  on  the  couch. 
Indeed,  the  room  was  full  of  her,  and  I  was  holding 
her  scarf,  just  as  I  hold  Thomson's. 

"I  walked  down  Regent  Street  behind  you  yester- 
day," I  said,  sternly,  "  and  your  back  told  me  that 
you  were  vain." 

"  I  am  not  vain  of  my  personal  appearance,  at 
any  rate." 

" How  could  you  be?" 

She  looked  at  me  sharply,  but  my  face  was  with- 
out expression,  and  she  sighed.  She  remembered 
that  I  had  no  humor. 

"Whatever  my  faults  are,  and  they  are  many, 
vanity  is  not  one  of  them." 

"When  I  said  you  had  a  bad  temper  you  made 
the  same  remark  about  it.    Also  when " 

"  That  was  last  week,  stupid !  But,  of  course,  if 
you  think  me  ugly " 

"  I  did  not  say  that." 

"Yes,  you  did." 

"  But  if  you  think  nothing  of  your  personal  ap- 
pearance, why  blame  me  if  I  agree  with  you  !" 

She  rose  haughtily. 

"Sit  down." 

"I  won't.  Give  me  my  scarf."  Her  eyes  were 
flashing.     She  has  all  sorts  of  eyes. 


TWO  OF  THEM.  15 

"  If  you  really  want  to  know  what  I  think  of  your 
personal  appearance " 

"I  don't." 

I  resumed  my  pipe. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"Well?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  say  some- 
thing." 

"  Only  that  your  back  pleased  me  in  certain  other 
respects." 

She  let  the  chair  take  her  back  into  its  embrace. 

"  Mary,  dear  1 " 

It  is  a  fact  that  she  was  crying.  After  I  had  made 
a  remark  or  two : 

"I  am  so  glad  you  think  me  pretty,"  she  said, 
frankly,  "  for  though  I  don't  think  so  myself,  I  like 
other  people  to  think  it,  and  somehow  I  thought 
you  considered  me  plain.  My  nose  is  all  wrong, 
isn't  it  * " 

"  Let  me  see." 

"  So  you  admit  you  were  entirely  mistaken  in 
calling  me  vain  ? " 

"  You  have  proved  that  I  was." 

However,  after  she  had  drawn  the  daggers  out  of 
her  head  and  put;  them  into  the  scarf  (or  whatever 
part  of  a  lady's  dress  it  is  that  is  worked  with  dag- 
gers), and  when  the  door  had  closed  on  her,  she 
opened  it  and  hurriedly  fired  these  shots  at  me : 

"Yes,  I  am  horridly  vain — I  do  my  hair  every 


16  TWO  OF  THEM. 

night  before  I  go  to  bed — I  was  sure  you  admired 
me  the  very  first  time  we  met — I  know  I  have  a 
pretty  nose — good-afternoon." 

HEE  SELFISHNESS. 

She  was  making  spills  for  me,  because  those 
Thomson  made  for  me  had  run  down. 

"Mary." 

"Well?" 

"  Mary,  dear !  * 

"  I  am  listening." 

"That  is  all." 

"  You  have  such  a  curious,  wasteful  habit  of  say- 
ing one's  name  as  if  it  was  a  remark  by  itself." 

"Yes,  Thomson  has  noticed  that  also.  However, 
I  think  I  meant  to  add  that  it  is  very  good  of  you  to 
make  those  spills.  I  wonder  if  you  would  do  some- 
thing else  for  me  ?  " 

"As  a  friend?" 

"  Yes.  I  want  you  to  fill  my  pipe,  and  ram  down 
the  tobacco  with  your  little  finger." 

"  You  and  Mr.  Thomson  do  that  for  each  other  ?  " 

"  Often." 

"  Very  well ;  give  it  me.     This  way  ?  " 

"  It  smokes  beautifully.  You  are  a  dear,  good 
girl." 

She  let  the  poker  fall. 

"Oh,  I'm  not,"  she  wailed.  "I  am  not  really 
kindhearted ;  it  is  all  selfishness." 


TWO  OF  THEM.  17 

This  came  out  with  a  rush,  but  I  am  used  to  her, 
and  kept  my  pipe  in. 

"  Even  my  charities  are  only  a  hideous  kind  of 
selfishness,"  she  continued,  with  clasped  hands. 
"  There  is  that  poor  man  who  sells  match-boxes  at 
the  corner  of  this  street,  for  instance.  I  sometimes 
give  him  twopence."  (She  carries  an  enormous 
purse,  but  there  is  never  more  than  twopence  in  it.) 

*  That  is  surely  not  selfish,"  I  said. 

"  It  is,"  said  she,  seizing  the  poker  as  if  intending 
to  do  for  herself  that  instant.  "  I  never  give  him 
anything  simply  because  I  see  he  needs  it,  but  only 
occasionally  when  I  feel  happier  than  usual.  I  am 
only  thinking  of  my  own  happiness  when  I  give  it 
him.     That  is  the  personification  of  selfishness." 

"  Mary ! " 

"Well,  if  that  isn't,  this  is.  I  only  give  him 
something  when  I  am  passing  him,  at  any  rate.  I 
never  dream  of  crossing  the  street  on  purpose  to  do 
it.  Oh,  I  should  need  to  be  terrifically  happy  be- 
fore I  would  bother  crossing  to  give  him  anything. 
There !  what  do  you  think  of  me  now  ?  " 

"  You  gave  him  something  on  Monday  when  I  was 
with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  you  were  happy  at  that  time  ?  " 

"  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it !  " 

"  A  great  deal." 

I  rose. 

2 


18  TWO  OF  THEM. 

"  Mary,  dear " 

"No  !     Go  and  sit  over  there." 


STAGGERERS. 

The  subjects  we  have  discussed  over  the  poker! 
For  instance  : 

The  rapidity  with  which  we  grow  old. 

What  on  earth  Mr.  Meredith  means  by  saying- 
that  woman  will  be  the  last  thing  civilized  by 
man? 

Thomson. 

What  will  it  all  matter  a  hundred  years  hence  ? 

How  strangely  unlike  other  people  we  two  are ! 

The  nicest  name  for  a  woman.     (Mary.) 

The  mystery  of  Being  and  not  Being. 

Why  does  Mary  exist  ? 

Does  Mary  exist  ? 

She  had  come  in,  looking  very  doleful,  and  the 
reason  was,  that  the  more  she  thought  it  over,  the 
less  could  she  see  why  she  existed.  This  came  of 
reading  a  work  entitled  "Why  Do  We  Exist  ?  " — a 
kind  of  book  that  ought  not  to  be  published,  for  it 
only  makes  people  unhappy.  Mary  stared  at  the 
problem  with  wide,  fixed  eyes  until  I  compelled  her 
to  wink  by  putting  another  in  front  of  it,  namely, 
"  Do  You  Exist  ?  "  In  her  ignorance  she  thought 
there  was  no  doubt  of  this,  but  I  lent  her  a  "  Bishop 
Berkeley,"  and  since  then  she  has  taken  to  pinching 


TWO  OF  THEM.  19 

herself  on  the  sly,  just  to  make  sure  that  she  is  still 
there. 

HER  SCARP. 

So  far  I  had  not  (as  will  have  been  noticed)  by  a 
word  or  look  or  sign  broken  the  agreement  which 
rendered  our  platonic  friendship  possible.  I  had 
not  even  called  her  darling,  and  this  because,  hav- 
ing reflected  a  good  deal  on  the  subject,  I  could  not 
persuade  myself  that  this  was  one  of  my  ways  of 
addressing  Thomson.  And  I  would  have  continued 
the  same  treatment  had  it  not  been  for  her  scarf, 
which  has  proved  beyond  all  bearing.  That  scarf  is 
entirely  responsible  for  what  happened  to-day. 

It  is  a  stripe  of  faded  terra-cotta,  and  she  ties  it 
round  her  mouth  before  going  out  into  the  fog. 
Her  face  is  then  sufficiently  irritating,  but  I  could 
endure  it  by  looking  another  way,  did  she  not  reck- 
lessly make  farewell  remarks  through  the  scarf, 
which  is  very  thin.  Then  her  mouth — in  short,  I 
can't  put  up  with  this. 

I  had  warned  her  repeatedly.  But  she  was  like  a 
mad  girl,  or,  perhaps,  she  did  not  understand  my 
meaning. 

u  Don't  come  near  me  with  that  thing  round  your 
mouth,"  I  have  told  her  a  dozen  times.  I  have  re- 
fused firmly  to  tie  it  for  her.  I  have  put  the  table 
between  me  and  it,  and  she  asked  why  (through  the 
scarf).     She  was  quite  mad. 


20  TWO   OF  THEM. 

And  to-day,  when  I  was  feeling  rather  strange  at 
any  rate  !    It  all  occurred  in  a  moment. 

"  Don't  attempt  to  speak  with  that  scarf  round 
you,"  I  had  said,  and  said  it  with  my  back  to  her. 

"  You  think  I  can't,  because  it  is  too  tight  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Go  away,"  I  said 

She  turned  me  round. 

"  Why,"  she  said,  wonderingly,  "  it  is  quite  loose. 
I  believe  I  could  whistle  through  it." 

She  did  whistle  through  it.  That  finished  our 
platonic  friendship. 

FIVE    MINUTES    AFTERWARD. 

I  spoke  wildly,  fiercely,  exultingly ;  and  she,  all 
the  time,  was  trying  to  put  on  her  jacket,  and  could 
not  find  the  sleeve. 

"  It  was  your  own  fault ;  but  I  am  glad.  I  warned 
you.     Cry  away.    I  like  to  see  you  crying." 

"I  hate  you!" 

"  No,  you  don't." 

"A  friend " 

"Friend!    Pooh!    Bah!    Pshaw!" 

"  Mr.  Thomson " 

"Thomson!  Tehut!  Thomson!  His  Christian 
name  isn't  Harry.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I  don't 
care ! " 

"You  said " 


TWO  OF  THEM.  21 

"It  was  a  lie.  Don't  screw  your  mouth  in  that 
way." 

"I  will,  if  I  like." 

"  I  warn  you  !  " 

"I  don't  care.    Oh!    Oh!" 

"  I  warned  you." 

"  Now  I  know  you  in  your  true  colors." 

"  You  do,  and  I  glory  in  it.  Platonic  friendship 
— fudge !  I  quarrelled  with  you  that  time  to  be  able 
to  hold  your  hands  when  we  made  it  up.      When 

you  thought  I  was  reading  your  character  I 

Don't — screw — your — mouth ! " 

"  Give  me  my  scarf." 

"  I  lent  you  Berkeley  so  that  I  could  take  hold  of 
you  by  the  shoulders  on  the  pretence  that  I  was 
finding  out  whether  you  existed." 

"  Good-by  forever  /" 

"  All  the  time  we  were  discussing  the  mystery  of 
Being  I  was  thinking  how  much  I  should  like  to 
put  my  hands  beneath  your  chin  and  flick  it." 

"  If  you  ever  dare  to  speak  to  me  again " 

"Don't  —  screw  —  your  —  mouth.  And  I  would 
rather  put  my  fingers  through  your  hair  than  write 
the  greatest  poem  in " 

She  was  gone,  leaving  the  scarf  behind  her. 

My  heart  sank.  I  flung  open  my  window  (six 
hansoms  came  immediately),  and  I  could  have 
jumped  after  her.  But  I  did  not.  What  I  saw  had  a 
remarkable  effect  on  my  spirits.      /  saiv  her  cross  the 


22  '  TWO  OF  THEM. 

street  on  purpose  to  give  twopence  to  the  old  man 
who  sells  the  matches. 

All's  well  with  the  world.  As  soon  as  I  can  lay- 
down  the  scarf  I  am  going  west  to  the  house 
where  Mary,  dear,  lives. 


OUR  NEW  SERVANT. 

"  At  last/'  my  wife  said  to  me,  "  I  am  to  have  a 
good  servant." 

She  had  said  this  frequently  before,  and  after- 
ward changed  her  mind.  Though  we  were  but 
lately  married,  we  had  already  had  considerable 
experience  of  servants,  and  the  new-comer  was  to 
take  the  place  of  one  who  smashed  things,  but  had 
too  much  delicacy  to  mention  it.  As  the  china  was 
also  delicate,  we  had  to  choose  between  her  and  it. 

"  You  need  not  look  so  sceptical,"  said  my  wife, 
"for  this  is  really  an  extremely  superior  servant. 
She  has  the  most  glowing  characters  from  four 
former  mistresses.  She  has  only  been  a  servant  for 
a  year,  yet  they  all  speak  of  her  as  a  gem." 

"  But  they  don't  seem  to  have  kept  her  long,"  I 
pointed  out. 

"  No ;  I  noticed  that,  and  asked  them  why  it  was. 
Two  of  them  said  that  she  was  really  too  good  for 
them,  and  the  others  only  repeated  that  she  was  a 
marvel." 

The  new  servant  arrived  in  the  evening.  I  am  not 
a  man  who  takes  much  part  in  the  domestic  man- 
agement of  the  house,   and  she  began  her  work 


24  OUR  NEW  SERVANT. 

without  an  interview  with  me.  I  noticed  her  first  at 
family  worship,  when  her  lady-like  manners  made 
me  think  that  she  might  be  a  princess  in  disguise. 
She  was  removing  the  supper  things,  when  my  wife 
said  to  me,  in  French : 

"  Is  she  not  quite  distinguished-looking ! " 

Having  thought  out  the  grammatical  form  of  re- 
ply, as  suggested  by  the  "  Students'  Manual,"  I  an- 
swered, in  the  same  language : 

"Yes,  her  elegant  manner  of  carrying  away  the 
tray  fascinates  me." 

Then  the  servant  said,  in  a  sweet,  musical  voice, 
"  Pardon  me,  but  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  that  I 
speak  French." 

My  wife  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  my  wife. 
I  whistled  softly,  and  that  was  a  language  the  new 
servant  seemed  to  understand  too.  As  soon  as  she 
had  retired,  "  Well,  she  is  a  superior  girl,"  I  said, 
and  my  wife  nodded,  but  without  enthusiasm. 

For  my  own  part  I  must  say  I  was  rather  glad  to 
see  the  French  language  put  a  stop  to  in  our  family. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  our  new  servant  was 
all  that  her  former  mistresses  had  called  her.  She 
could  pile  on  coals  without  putting  out  the  fire,  her 
cooking  was  as  good  as  her  French.  Indeed,  one 
would  have  said  that  she  had  learned  both  in  the 
same  country.  As  soon  as  the  door-bell  rang  she 
was  at  the  door  to  open  it,  and  she  never  entertained 
her  male  cousins  in  the  kitchen. 


OUR  NEW  SERVANT.  25 

My  wife  reads  a  good  many  novels,  which  it  was 
my  custom  to  get  for  her  from  a  library.  She  has  a 
leaning  toward  learning  and  an  inclination  to  the 
frivolous,  which  struggle  for  the  mastery  over  her, 
and,  accordingly,  she  tells  me  to  get  a  queer  assort- 
ment of  books  for  her.  Herbert  Spencer  and  Miss 
Florence  Marryat  are  her  two  favorite  authors. 

"  What  novels  will  I  get  for  you  to-day  ?  "  I  asked 
her,  soon  after  the  new  servant  came.  She  sighed 
for  reply. 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  read  any  more  novels,"  she 
added,  in  a  dejected  voice. 

"  Waste  of  time  1 "  I  asked. 

She  sighed  again. 

"  It  is  the  servant,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  what  has  she  been  doing  f  I  thought  she 
was  such  a  good  servant  that  you  would  have  more 
time  for  reading  now  than  ever  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  is  a  model  servant ;  but  I  don't  like  her 
to  see  me  reading  novels." 

"  You  didn't  use  to  be  so  particular.  Are  you 
afraid  to  set  her  a  bad  example  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  could !  No,  I  don't  mean  that,  but  I  am 
ashamed  to  read  light  books  in  her  presence.  I  see 
her  raising  her  eyebrows  in  surprise  every  time  she 
finds  me  with  three  volumes  in  my  lap." 

"  She  can't  know  anything  about  what  is  inside 
the  books." 

"  Oh,  does  she  not !    When  I  went  into  the  kitchen 


26  OUR  NEW  SERVANT. 

yesterday  evening,  I  found  her  reading  Huxley. 
The  day  before  I  noticed  a  copy  of  Walter  Savage 
Landor  on  the  dresser,  and  thought  it  was  yours.  I 
began  to  say  to  her  that  she  must  not  take  away 
your  books  from  the  library  without  my  permission, 
and  what  do  you  think  her  answer  was  ?  " 

"  No  doubt  she  said  the  cat  had  brought  it." 

"  Ah,  she  is  not  like  other  servants.  She  said  it 
was  her  own  copy,  and  that  she  would  not  have 
thought  of  taking  yours  in  any  case,  because  it  is  an 
incomplete  edition." 

"  What  on  earth  could  have  induced  the  girl  to 
buy  a  copy  of  Landor  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  she  liked  to  read  him  because  he 
wrote  such  a  superb  style.  '  As  stylists/  she  said, 
'Landor  and  DeQuincey  are  my  two  favorite  au- 
thors.' " 

"  What  a  superior  servant !  " 

"Yes,  but  she  did  not  surprise  me.  Books  are 
her  chief  subject  of  conversation.  She  told  me  the 
other  night  that,  in  her  opinion,  Froude  did  not 
understand  Carlyle." 

"  I  expect  she  puts  on  airs  ?  " 

"No,  quite  the  contrary ;  she  is  always  very  polite 
and  obliging.  I  have  never  the  least  trouble  with 
her.  What  makes  me  uncomfortable  is  the  feeling 
that  in  her  heart  she  must  despise  me." 

From  the  day  we  had  this  conversation,  I  was 
asked  to  bring  a  few  novels  to  the  house.    Those 


OUR  NEW  SERVANT.  27 

that  did  come  were  at  once  locked  awajr  in  draw- 
ers, only  to  be  taken  out  and  perused  when  my 
wife  was  not  under  our  superior  servant's  eyes.  It 
was  melancholy  to  see  my  wife  slipping  a  novel  be- 
neath her  chair  when  the  new  servant  came  in. 

In  time  I  felt  the  presence  of  that  girl  hardly  less 
than  my  wife  did.  I  remember  shaking  one  even- 
ing when  she  detected  me  reading  my  incomplete 
volume  of  Landor.  I  had  begun  to  take  in  an  edi- 
tion of  "  Selected  Works  "  of  the  poets,  but  I  gave 
them  up.  How  could  I  read  selected  works,  when 
she  had  the  complete  works  in  the  kitchen  % 

My  wife  and  I  have  naturally  simple  tastes,  and 
we  used  to  play  bagatelle  in  the  evening.  "When 
the  new  servant  saw  us  at  it  she  could  not  help 
smiling,  and  then  we  were  ashamed.  We  continued 
to  play,  because  neither  of  us  liked  to  let  on  to  the 
other,  but  often  my  wife  blushed,  and  so  did  I. 

"  The  fire  is  low,"  I  said,  one  night  while  we  were 
playing.     "  You  had  better  ring  for  coals." 

"  But  what  would  Isabella  think,  "  said  my  wife, 
"  if  she  saw  us  playing  at  bagatelle  again  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  Isabella  thinks,"  I  cried  in  a 
passion.     "Is  she  master  in  this  house,  or  am  I?  " 

"  Shut  the  bagatelle  board,"  she  replied,  "  and  I'll 
ring." 

I  was  not  to  make  myself  as  small  as  this,  how- 
ever, -so  I  rang  fiercely,  and  when  Isabella  answered 
it  I  glared  like  one  who  meditated  eating  her.     She 


28  OUR  NEW  SERVANT. 

did  not  smile  this  time,  but  I,  too,  felt  that  her  re- 
spect for  her  master  was  going. 

"  Isabella  tells  me,"  my  wife  said  next  day,  "  that 
the  ancients  used  to  play  a  game  not  unlike  baga- 
telle." 

"  Then  we  have  a  warrant  for  playing  it." 

"  But  she  says  they  only  played  it  when  they  were 
children." 

After  that  we  played  bagatelle  no  more.  It  was 
never  mentioned  by  either  of  us.  The  board  was 
hidden  away  beneath  the  spare  bedroom  bed. 
Soon  I  noticed  that  my  wife  had  begun  to  make  her 
own  dresses.  From  one  point  of  view  this  was  not 
a  matter  for  her  husband  to  complain  of,  but  my 
wife  looked  so  woe-begone  that  I  asked  why  she 
had  become  her  own  dressmaker. 

"  Isabella,"  she  replied. 

"  Well,  what  has  Isabella  been  doing  now  ?  " 

"She  has  not  been  doing  anything.  But  she 
makes  her  own  dresses  and  sews  so  beautifully  that 
I  am  utterly  ashamed  of  myself.  I  can't  look  her  in 
the  face." 

I  stamped  my  feet,  for  I  had  now  begun  to  hate 
that  jewel  of  a  servant. 

One  Sunday  I  noticed  that  my  wife  carried  a 
note-book  and  a  pencil  to  church  with  her. 

"  Are  you  to  take  notes  of  the  sermon  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  said  that  was  her  intention. 

"  What,"  I  asked,  "  put  this  into  your  head  ?  " 


OUR  NEW  SERVANT.  29 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  that  wretched  Isabella  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  Yes,  of  course  it  was,  but  don't  call  her  names. 
She  is  a  model  servant." 

"  I  suppose  she  takes  notes  of  the  sermons  ?  " 

"  She  does  more  than  that,  she  takes  the  complete 
sermon  down  in  shorthand." 

About  a  week  ago  a  series  of  lectures  on  English 
literature  and  other  subjects  was  begun  in  our  town. 

"  Those  who  get  so  many  marks  in  the  examina- 
tions," my  wife  told  me,  "  can  then  go  to  St.  An- 
drews and  become  L.L.A.,  I  think  it  is.'' 

I  had  no  desire  that  my  wife  should  be  an  L.L.A., 
but  she  wanted  to  attend,  and  I  did  not  mind. 

"  Is  this  not  the  first  night  of  the  lectures  ? "  I 
asked  her  one  evening. 

She  said  it  was. 

"  Then  is  it  not  time  you  were  getting  ready  !  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  going." 

" Not  going?     Why?" 

"Isabella " 

"  This  is  too  much  !  What  has  Isabella  to  say 
against  the  lectures  ?  " 

"  She  says  nothing  against  them.     She  is  going." 

"Wh-a-t!" 

"  I  couldn't  'prevent  her.  She  hardly  ever  asks 
out." 

"  Well,  it  would  have  been  absurd  if  you  and  she 
had  gone  together." 


30  OUR  NEW  SERVANT. 

"  Perhaps,  but  that  is  not  what  made  me  give  the 
idea  up.  I  feel  that  Isabella  will  certainly  take  most 
marks  in  the  examination,  and  that  shames  me." 

"Hum!  I  think  that  the  best  thing  we  can  do 
with  Isabella  is  to  bid  her  leave." 

My  wife's  eyes  gleamed  with  delight. 

"  But  she  is  such  a  perfect  girl,"  she  said.  "We 
could  have  no  excuse  for  sending  her  away." 

"  Excellent  excuses,"  I  said,  "  I  want  to  read  nov- 
els again  and  to  play  bagatelle,  and,  in  short,  to  feel 
that  I  am  as  good  as  my  servant." 

"  We  will  never  get  such  a  servant  again." 

"  I  hope  not.     She  is  too  good  for  us." 

The  end  of  it  was  that  I  bribed  Isabella  to  go. 
We  now  have  a  servant  who  cannot  write  her  own 
name,  and  she  is  a  delightful  change. 


REMINISCENCES   OP  AN  UMBRELLA. 

Lying  here  on  the  floor  of  a  closet,  my  head  loose, 
one  of  my  ribs  in  twain,  and  two  others  mended 
with  a  bootlace,  I  am  no  longer  the  umbrella  I  have 
been.  But  though  my  experiences  may  seem  dark, 
I  am  not  a  cynic.  I  have  had  my  gay  moments  as 
well  as  my  misfortunes.  If  men  have  grumbled  at 
me  because  I  would  not  open,  sweet  words  of  love 
have  been  whispered  beneath  my  covering ;  and  if 
many  have  owned  me,  one  has  paid  for  me.  Omit- 
ting all  reference  to  my  early  years,  why  should  I 
not  now,  as  other  veterans  have  done,  set  down 
some  reminiscences  of  the  men  and  women  I  have 
known  ? 

The  first  man  with  whom  I  had  any  close  acquaint- 
ance was  a  minister.  He  came  into  the  shop  where 
I  originally  saw  the  light,  and  said  that  he  wanted 
an  umbrella.  The  kind  he  wanted  was  a  very  good 
one,  of  pure  silk,  and  his  only  stipulation  was  that  it 
should  be  as  cheap  as  alpaca. 

"John,"  said  my  maker  to  his  assistant,  "show 
the  gentleman  a  Marquis,  and  keep  the  price  down." 

I  am  a  Marquis,  and  after  trying  thirty-three  of  us, 
the  minister  selected  me.     While  he  was  taking  six- 


32  REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA. 

pence  off  the  price,  he  had  a  conversation  with  my 
maker,  which  I  did  not  understand  at  the  time, 
though  well  I  know  its  meaning  now. 

"You  are  the  first  minister,"  said  my  maker,  "who 
has  bought  an  umbrella,  to  my  knowledge,  for  the 
last  nine  months." 

"  Why,"  said  my  new  owner,  as  he  rolled  me  up 
very  tight  (for  he  was  a  young  man),  "  it  seems  to  me 
that  all  ministers  carry  umbrellas." 

"  That's  another  thing,"  says  my  maker. 

"You  mean,"  says  the  minister,  "that  we  have 
them  presented  to  us  ? " 

"  That's  a  delicate  way  of  putting  it,"  says  my 
maker.  "I  don't  think  you  have  been  long  a  min- 
ister 1 " 

"  No,"  says  the  minister. 

"  After  you  have  been,"  says  my  maker,  winking 
to  John,  "  I'll  lose  your  custom." 

Then  my  owner  and  I  went  off  along  the  street.  I 
have  nothing  to  say  against  him,  except  that  he 
took  me  out  in  fine  weather,  always  keeping  me 
tightly  rolled  up,  and  he  spent  hours  in  his  lodgings 
trying  to  roll  me  tighter.  I  don't  know  that  any 
of  my  owners  ever  loved  me  as  this  first  one  did, 
and  I  think  the  reason  was  because  he  alone  bought 
and  paid  for  me.  He  called  himself  a  minister,  but 
as  it  turned  out  he  was  only  a  divinity  student,  and 
it "  was  at  the  college  that  we  parted.  That  was 
seventeen  days  after  he  bought  me,  and  I  can  still 


REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA.  33 

remember  the  affectionate  glance  he  gave  me  as  he 
put  me  into  the  rack,  where  there  were  about  a  doz- 
en other  umbrellas,  and  two  sticks  with  brass  knobs. 
That  day  it  rained.  The  first  to  leave  the  room  was 
the  professor,  a  handsome  man  of  noble  countenance, 
and  when  he  saw  the  rain  he  turned  back  to  the  rack 
and  looked  at  the  umbrellas.  I  was  the  best,  so, 
after  looking  at  the  others,  he  picked  me  out,  put 
me  up,  and  walked  home  beneath  me,  a  beautiful 
look  still  lurking  on  his  benevolent  face. 

This  eminent  professor  is  No.  2  of  the  men  I  have 
known,  and  during  the  three  weeks  in  which  I  be- 
longed to  him  he  called  me  his  new  umbrella.  Once 
I  heard  his  daughter  (whose  umbrella  I  should  have 
liked  to  be)  ask  him  why  he  took  me  everywhere  ex- 
cept to  the  college,  and  the  good  old  man  replied 
that  the  students  were  given  to  taking  away  other 
people's  umbrellas.  Once  during  this  time  I  set 
eyes  upon  my  first  owner,  and  for  a  moment  I 
thought  I  was  to  be  restored  to  him.  He  and  some 
other  students  came  to  the  house  to  tea,  and  when 
he  saw  me  standing  in  the  professor's  rack  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"  That  umbrella,"  he  said,  pointing  to  me,  "  is  the 
very  image  of  one  I  lost  at  the  college  the  other 
day." 

The  professor  was  standing  by,  telling  his  guests 

as  they  came  in  one  by  one  that  it  had  been  a  frosty 

day,  and  when  he  heard  this  remark  about  me  he 
3 


34  REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA. 

said,  in  liis  kindly  voice,  that  one  umbrella  was 
very  like  another. 

"You  students/'  he  added,  "ought  to  be  more 
careful  about  your  umbrellas.  I  am  constantly 
hearing  complaints  about  their  going  astray." 

Then  he  took  them  all  into  his  study,  but  after  a 
little  he  came  out  and  hid  me  behind  the  hall  clock. 

That,  I  thought,  was  the  last  I  would  see  of  my 
first  owner,  but  it  was  not  so.  The  daughter  of  the 
house,  to  whom  I  have  already  referred,  had  over- 
heard the  talk  about  me,  and  I  saw  her  at  the  time 
look  queerly  at  her  father.  When  the  student  was 
going  she  came  to  the  door  with  him,  and  I  heard 
them  say  something  about  "  the  usual  place  at  five 
o'clock."  Then  she  called  him  back,  and  running  to 
the  clock,  felt  for  me  with  her  hand,  just  as  if  she 
knew  that  her  father  often  put  umbrellas  there. 
She  thrust  me  into  the  student's  hand,  muttering 
something  about  papa's  being  very  absent-minded. 

Thus  was  I  restored  to  the  student,  but  only  for  a 
brief  space.  On  the  following  Friday  he  took  me  to 
the  class  again,  and  once  more  the  professor  was  the 
first  to  leave.  His  eye  lighted  up  when  he  saw  me, 
and  he  half  drew  me  from  the  rack.  Then  he  caught 
sight  of  another  umbrella  with  an  ebony  handle,  the 
owner  of  which  was  also  a  student.  He  compared 
us  for  a  moment,  felt  the  materials,  and  finally  went 
off  with  the  other  one.  When  its  owner  could  not 
find  it  he  said  that  I  was  the   next  best,  and  half 


REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA.  35 

an  hour  afterward  I  was  standing  in  a  corner  of  his 
room. 

Hardly  can  this  gentleman  be  included  among  the 
men  I  have  known,  for  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
or  I  vanished  from  his,  on  the  following  evening. 
On  that  evening  a  friend  called  on  him,  a  gentleman 
in  a  light  suit  and  a  white  hat,  with  a  mean  mus- 
tache, and  a  foolish  expression  of  countenance — a 
maker  of  pipes,  as  I  gathered  from  the  conversation. 
It  was  a  fine  evening  when  he  called,  but  not  when 
he  got  up  to  go;  and  not  having  an  umbrella,  he 
was  distressed  lest  his  hat  should  suffer. 

"Can  you  not  lend  me  an  umbrella  ?  "  he  asked; 
but  my  new  owner  shook  his  head. 

"  You  never  brought  back  the  last  one,"  he  replied. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  visitor ;  "  give  me  one  and 
I'll  bring  them  both  back  together." 

"  I  don't  have  one,"  said  my  owner. 

"  Why,  what  is  that  in  the  corner !  " 

"  Oh,  I  had  forgotten ;  but  that  is  a  very  valuable 
one.    I  paid  twenty-five  shillings  for  it  last  week." 

"  It  will  do  very  well,"  said  the  gentleman,  seiz- 
ing hold  of  me. 

He  promised  to  bring  or  send  me  back  next  day, 
but  a  week  passed,  and  every  evening  found  him 
strutting  along  the  pier,  with  me  in  his  right 
hand.  Late  one  afternoon,  however,  when  he  was 
in  his  workshop,  making  another  pipe,  the  student 
came  to  the  door  and  said  that  he  wanted  his  um- 


36  REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA. 

brellas.  Then  the  gentleman  received  him  hos- 
pitably, but  declared  that  he  had  taken  back  both 
umbrellas  three  days  before.  So  solemnly  did  he 
insist  on  this  that  the  other  knew  not  what  to  say, 
and  went  off  in  a  daze. 

The  next  man  I  knew  was  introduced  to  me,  so  to 
speak,  by  his  wife.  My  owner  had  taken  me  to  a 
dinner-party,  and  I  was  in  the  umbrella-stand  when 
two  of  the  company  left.  They  were  the  first  to  go, 
and  I  saw  at  once  that  they  were  husband  and  wife. 
The  gentleman  was  taking  his  own  umbrella  from 
the  stand  (for  he  was  weak-minded)  when  the  lady 
handed  me  to  him,  saying,  "  This  is  a  much  better 
one."    Thus  it  was  that  I  again  changed  owners. 

From  this  house  I  was  taken  by  the  first  gentle- 
man who  called,  but  he  lost  me  on  the  way.  We 
went  by  rail,  and  another  gentleman  in  the  carriage 
left,  taking  me  with  him.  He  was  the  gentleman 
who  had  me  in  his  hand  when  he  walked  home  from 
soirees  with  young  ladies.  Three  of  them  he  told 
(but  all  at  different  times)  that  he  loved  them  pas- 
sionately, but  could  not  afford  to  marry ;  and  they 
all  promised  to  be  sisters  to  him,  which  pleased  him 
vastly  more,  I  think,  than  if  they  had  promised  to 
marry  him. 

He  left  me  at  the  outside  of  his  door  one  day 
because  I  was  very  wet,  and  there  I  was  found  by  a 
policeman,  who  took  me  in  charge  and  ran  me  into 
the  police  station.    The  magistrate  picked  me  out 


REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA.  37 

as  the  best  of  six,  and  took  me  home,  where  I  lay  for 
a  week,  when  I  was  abstracted  from  the  stand  by  a 
town  councillor.  He  took  me  to  a  meeting  of  his 
friends,  where  there  was  talk  of  presenting  some- 
thing to  an  Irish  statesman,  and  at  first  I  thought 
they  were  to  present  me  to  him,  but  it  turned  out  to 
be  something  else.  This  town  councillor  I  heard 
boasting  that  he  never  carried  any  but  the  best  um- 
brellas, and  he  also  boasted  that  he  had  not  bought 
an  umbrella  since  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age. 

A  councillor  took  me  away  from  the  council 
chamber,  and  had  a  rim  of  silver  put  round  me, 
with  his  name  and  address  on  it,  "for,"  he  said,  "  if 
you  do  not  take  some  such  precaution  you  are  sure  to 
lose  your  umbrella,  the  public  are  so  careless  or  so 
dishonest."  In  his  possession  I  remained  for  nearly 
a  month,  but  one  day  he  took  me  to  a  club,  and  I 
had  not  been  in  the  umbrella-stand  for  more  than 
five  minutes  when  an  advocate  came  out,  and  select- 
ing me  with  care,  walked  away  with  me.  He  took  the 
silver  rim  off  with  his  pocket-knife,  and  then  carried 
i  me  to  a  shop,  where  he  instructed  the  shopman 
to  put  a  band  round  me  saying  that  I  was  presented 
to  John  Smith,  Esq.,  by  his  affectionate  son-in-law, 
June  24,  1889.  My  new  owner  was  the  man  who 
abused  me  because  I  would  not  open,  and  he  also 
grumbled  because  once  I  was  open  I  was  reluctant 
to  shut,  for  now  I  had  become  somewhat  stiff.  Once 
he  was   in    such  a    rage    at    me  that  he    hit    me 


38  REMINISCENCES  OF  AN  UMBRELLA. 

savagely  against  the  hat-stand,  and  that  was  how 
my  first  rib  was  broken. 

I  was  saved  from  this  man  by  an  elderly  lady,  who 
took  me  away  beneath  her  waterproof,  thinking  I 
should  do  for  an  office  umbrella  for  her  son.  When 
they  discovered,  however,  that  the  rib  was  in  two, 
and  that  I  was  spotted  with  holes,  they  raged  to- 
gether at  the  old  gentleman  for  owning  such  an 
umbrella.  I  was  kept  at  the  office,  until  one  of  the 
clerks  fell  over  me  and  broke  two  more  ribs.  My 
owner  now  declared  that  I  had  been  an  admirable  new 
umbrella  when  he  bought  me  the  week  before,  and 
the  unhappy  young  man  had  to  give  him  another, 
whereupon  he  got  me  as  a  gift.  I  was  sorry  for  him, 
for  he  told  his  master  that  the  new  umbrella  had  cost 
him  fifteen  shillings,  but  soon  I  discovered  that  he 
had  picked  it  out  of  the  stand  at  a  doctor's  house. 
He  tried  to  mend  me  with  a  bootlace,  but  my  ap- 
pearance was  now  hopelessly  plebeian,  and  I  heard 
him  tell  his  sister,  who  lived  with  him,  that  he  was 
ashamed  to  be  seen  in  the  street  with  me.  One 
day  our  door  stood  wide  open,  and  so  did  the  door 
that  was  only  separated  from  ours  by  an  iron  rail- 
ing ;  so  she  took  me  into  the  next  house  and  left  me 
in  the  umbrella-stand  there,  taking  away  a  new  um- 
brella in  exchange.  It  is  in  this  house  I  am  lying 
now.  They  offered  me  to  the  milkman  and  the  post- 
man, but  neither  would  have  me ;  so  I  was  carried 
contemptuously  into  the  closet  where  I  now  lie. 


THE   INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

Feequently  I  have  to  ask  myself  in  the  street  for 
the  name  of  the  man  I  bowed  to  just  now,  and  then, 
before  I  can  answer,  the  wind  of  the  first  corner 
blows  him  from  my  memory.  I  have  a  theory,  how- 
ever, that  those  puzzling"  faces,  which  pass  before  I 
can  see  who  cut  the  coat,  all  belong  to  club-waiters. 

Until  William  forced  his  affairs  upon  me,  that  was 
all  I  did  know  of  the  private  life  of  waiters,  though 
I  have  been  in  the  club  for  twenty  years.  I  was 
even  unaware  whether  they  slept  down-stairs  or  had 
their  own  homes,  nor  had  I  the  interest  to  inquire 
of  other  members,  nor  they  the  knowledge  to  inform 
me.  I  hold  that  this  sort  of  people  should  be  fed 
and  clothed  and  given  airing  and  wives  and  children, 
and  I  subscribe  yearly,  I  believe,  for  these  purposes  ; 
but  to  come  into  closer  relation  with  waiters  is  bad 
form;  they  are  club  fittings,  and  Williams  should 
have  kept  his  distress  to  himself  or  taken  it  away 
and  patched  it  up,  like  a  rent  in  one  of  the  chairs. 
His  inconsiderateness  has  been  a  pair  of  spectacles 
to  me  for  months. 

It  is  not  correct  taste  to  know  the  name  of  a  club- 
waiter,  so  that  I  must  apologize  for  knowing  Will- 


40  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER. 

iam's,  and  still  more  for  not  forgetting  it.  If, 
again,  to  speak  of  a  waiter  is  bad  form,  to  speak 
bitterly  is  the  comic  degree  of  it.  But  William  lias 
disappointed  me  sorely.  There  were  years  when  I 
would  defer  dining  several  minutes  that  he  might 
wait  on  me.  His  pains  to  reserve  the  window-seat 
for  me  were  perfectly  satisfactory.  I  allowed  him 
privileges,  as  to  suggest  dishes,  and  would  give  him 
information,  as  that  someone  had  startled  me  in  the 
reading-room  by  slamming  a  door.  I  have  shown 
him  how  I  cut  my  finger  with  a  piece  of  string. 
Obviously  he  was  gratified  by  these  attentions, 
usually  recommending  a  liqueur ;  and  I  fancy  he 
must  have  understood  my  sufferings,  for  he  often 
looked  ill  himself.  Probably  he  was  rheumatic,  but 
I  cannot  say  for  certain,  as  I  never  thought  of  ask- 
ing, and  he  had  the  sense  to  see  that  the  knowledge 
would  be  offensive  to  me. 

In  the  smoking-room  we  have  a  waiter  so  indepen- 
dent that  once,  when  he  brought  me  a  yellow  Char- 
treuse, and  I  said  I  had  ordered  green,  he  replied, 
"No,  sir;  you  said  yellow."  "William  could  never 
have  been  guilty  of  such  effrontery.  In  appearance, 
of  course,  he  is  mean,  but  I  can  no  more  describe 
him  than  a  milkmaid  could  draw  cows.  I  suppose 
we  distinguish  one  waiter  from  another  much  as  we 
pick  our  hat  from  the  rack.  We  could  have  plotted 
a  murder  safely  before  William.  He  never  pre- 
sumed to  have  opinions  of  his  own.    When  such  was 


THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER.  41 

my  mood  lie  remained  silent,  and  if  I  announced 
that  something  diverting  had  happened  to  me  he 
laughed  before  I  told  him  what  it  was.  He  turned 
the  twinkle  in  his  eye  off  or  on  at  my  bidding  as 
readily  as  if  it  was  the  gas.  To  my  "  Sure  to  be 
wet  to-morrow,"  he  would  reply,  "  Yes,  sir ; "  and  to 
Trelawney's  "  It  doesn't  look  like  rain,"  two  minutes 
afterward,  he  would  reply,  "  No,  sir."  It  was  one 
member  who  said  Lightning  Eod  would  win  the 
Derby  and  another  who  said  Lightning  Eod  had  no 
chance,  but  it  was  William  who  agreed  with  both. 
He  was  like  a  cheroot,  which  may  be  smoked  from 
either  end.  So  used  was  I  to  him  that,  had  he  died 
or  got  another  situation  (or  whatever  it  is  such 
persons  do  when  they  disappear  from  the  club),  I 
should  probably  have  told  the  head  waiter  to  bring 
him  back,  as  I  disliked  changes. 

It  would  not  become  me  to  know  precisely  when 
I  began  to  think  William  an  ingrate,  but  I  date  his 
lapse  from  the  evening  when  he  brought  me  oysters. 
I  detest  oysters,  and  no  one  knew  it  better  than 
William.  He  has  agreed  with  me  that  he  could  not 
understand  any  gentleman's  liking  them.  Between 
me  and  a  certain  member  who  smacks  his  lips  twelve 
times  to  a  dozen  of  them,  William  knew  I  liked  a 
screen  to  be  placed  until  we  had  reached  the  soup, 
and  yet  he  gave  me  the  oysters  and  the  other  man 
my  sardine.  Both  the  other  member  and  I  called 
quickly  for  brandy   and  the  head  waiter.     To  do 


42  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER. 

William  justice,  lie  shook,  but  never  can  I  forget  his 
audacious  explanation,  "  Beg-  pardon,  sir,  but  I  was 
thinking  of  something  else." 

In  these  words  William  had  flung  off  the  mask, 
and  now  I  knew  him  for  what  he  was. 

I  must  not  be  accused  of  bad  form  for  looking  at 
William  on  the  following  evening.  What  prompted 
me  to  do  so  was  not  personal  interest  in  him,  but  a 
desire  to  see  whether  I  dare  let  him  wait  on  me 
again.  So,  recalling  that  a  castor  was  off  a  chair 
yesterday,  one  is  entitled  to  make  sure  that  it  is  on 
to-day  before  sitting  down.  If  the  expression  is  not 
too  strong,  I  may  say  that  I  was  taken  aback  by 
William's  manner.  Even  when  crossing  the  room  to 
take  my  orders  he  let  his  one  hand  play  nervously 
with  the  other.  I  had  to  repeat  "  Sardine  on  toast  " 
twice,  and  instead  of  answering  "  Yes,  Sir,"  as  if  my 
selection  of  sardine  on  toast  was  a  personal  gratifi- 
cation to  him,  which  is  the  manner  one  expects  of 
a  waiter,  he  glanced  at  the  clock,  then  out  at  the 
window,  and,  starting,  asked,  "  Did  you  say  sardine 
on  toast,  sir  ?  " 

It  was  the  height  of  summer,  when  London  smells 
like  a  chemist's  shop,  and  he  who  has  the  dinner- 
table  at  the  window  needs  no  candles  to  show  him 
his  knife  and  fork.  I  lay  back  at  intervals,  now 
watching  a  starved-looking  woman  asleep  on  a  door- 
step, and  again  complaining  of  the  club  bananas. 
By  and  by,  I  saw  a  little  girl  of  the  commonest 


Someone  was  leaning  over  me,  to  look  out  at  the  window. 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  43 

kind,  ill -clad  and  dirty,  as  all  these  arabs  are. 
Their  parents  should  be  compelled  to  feed  and  clothe 
them  comfortably,  or  at  least  to  keep  them  indoors, 
where  they  cannot  offend  our  eyes.  Such  children 
are  for  pushing  aside  with  one's  umbrella  ;  but  this 
girl  I  noticed  because  she  was  gazing  at  the  club 
windows.  She  had  stood  thus  for  perhaps  ten 
minutes,  when  I  became  aware  that  someone  was 
leaning  over  me,  to  look  out  at  the  window.  I  turned 
round.  Conceive  my  indignation  on  seeing  that  the 
rude  person  was  William. 

"  How  dare  you,  William  ! "  I  said,  sternly.  He 
seemed  not  to  hear  me.  Let  me  tell,  in  the  measured 
words  of  one  describing  a  past  incident,  what  then 
took  place.  To  get  nearer  the  window,  he  pressed 
heavily  on  my  shoulder. 

"  William,  you  forget  yourself !  "  I  said,  meaning — 
as  I  see  now — that  he  had  forgotten  me. 

I  heard  him  gulp,  but  not  to  my  reprimand.  He 
was  scanning  the  street.  His  hands  chattered  on 
my  shoulder,  and,  pushing  him  from  me,  I  saw  that 
his  mouth  was  agape. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  stared  at  me,  and  then,  like  one  who  had  at 
last  heard  the  echo  of  my  question,  seemed  to  be 
brought  back  to  the  club.  He  turned  his  face  from 
me  for  an  instant,  and  answered,  shakily 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir !  I — I  shouldn't  have  done 
it.    Are  the  bananas  too  ripe,  sir ! " 


44  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

He  recommended  the  nuts,  and  awaited  my  verdict 
so  anxiously  while  I  ate  one  that  I  was  about  to 
speak  graciously,  when  I  again  saw  his  eyes  drag 
him  to  the  window. 

"  William,"  I  said,  my  patience  giving  way  at  last ; 
"  I  dislike  being  waited  on  by  a  melancholy  waiter." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  trying  to  smile,  and  then 
broke  out  passionately,  "For  God's  sake,  sir,  tell 
me,  have  you  seen  a  little  girl  looking  in  at  the  club 
windows  ?  M 

He  had  been  a  good  waiter  once,  and  his  distracted 
visage  was  spoiling  my  dinner. 

"  There,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  girl,  and  no  doubt 
would  have  added  that  he  must  bring  me  coffee 
immediately,  had  he  continued  to  listen.  But  already 
he  was  beckoning  to  the  child.  I  had  not  the  least 
interest  in  her  (indeed  it  had  never  struck  me  that 
waiters  had  private  affairs,  and  I  still  think  it  a  pity 
that  they  should  have) ;  but  as  I  happened  to  be  look- 
ing out  at  the  window  I  could  not  avoid  seeing  what 
occurred.  As  soon  as  the  girl  saw  William  she  ran 
into  the  middle  of  the  street,  regardless  of  vehicles, 
and  nodded  three  times  to  him.  Then  she  disap- 
peared. 

I  have  said  that  she  was  quite  a  common  child, 
without  attraction  of  any  sort,  and  yet  it  was  amaz- 
ing the  difference  she  made  in  William.  He  gasped 
relief,  like  one  who  has  broken  through  the  anxiety 
that  checks  breathing,  and  into  his  face  there  came 


THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER.  45 

a  silly  laugh  of  happiness.  I  had  dined  well,  on  the 
whole,  so  I  said : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  cheerful  again,  William. " 

I  meant  that  I  approved  his  cheerfulness,  because 
it  helped  my  digestion,  but  he  must  needs  think  I 
was  sympathizing  with  him. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  Oh,  sir !  when 
she  nodded  and  I  saw  it  was  all  right,  I  could  have 
gone  down  on  my  knees  to  God." 

I  was  as  much  horrified  as  if  he  had  dropped 
a  plate  on  my  toes.  Even  William,  disgracefully 
emotional  as  he  was  at  the  moment,  flung  out  his 
arms  to  recall  the  shameful  words. 

"  Coffee,  William !  "  I  said,  sharply. 

I  sipped  my  coffee  indignantly,  for  it  was  plain  to 
me  that  William  had  something  on  his  mind. 

"  You  are  not  vexed  with  me,  sir !  "  he  had  the 
hardihood  to  whisper. 

"  It  was  a  liberty,"  I  said. 

"  I  know,  sir ;  but  I  was  beside  myself." 

"  That  was  a  liberty  also." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  blurted  out : 

"It  is  my  wife,  sir.     She  " 

I  stopped  him  with  my  hand.  William,  whom  I 
had  favored  in  so  many  ways,  was  a  married  man ! 
I  might  have  guessed  as  much  years  before  had  I 
ever  reflected  about  waiters,  for  I  knew  vaguely  that 
his  class  did  this  sort  of  thing.  His  confession  was 
distasteful  to  me,  and  I  said,  warningly  : 


46  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER. 

"  Remember  where  you  are,  William." 

"Yes,  sir;  but,  you  see,  she  is  so  delicate" 

"  Delicate  !  I  forbid  your  speaking  to  me  on  un- 
pleasant topics." 

"  Yes,  sir  \  begging  your  pardon." 

It  was  characteristic  of  William  to  beg  my  pardon 
and  withdraw  his  wife  like  some  unsuccessful  dish, 
as  if  its  taste  would  not  remain  in  the  mouth.  I 
shall  be  chided  for  questioning  him  further  about 
his  wife,  but,  though  doubtless  an  unusual  step,  it 
was  only  bad  form  superficially,  for  my  motive  was 
irreproachable.  I  inquired  for  his  wife,  not  because 
I  was  interested  in  her  welfare,  but  in  the  hope  of 
allaying  my  irritation.  So  I  am  entitled  to  invite 
the  wayfarer  who  has  bespattered  me  with  mud  to 
scrape  it  off. 

I  desired  to  be  told  by  William  that  the  girl's  sig- 
nals meant  his  wife's  recovery  to  health.  He  should 
have  seen  that  such  was  my  wish  and  answered  ac- 
cordingly. But,  with  the  brutal  inconsiderateness 
of  his  class,  he  said  : 

"  She  has  had  a  good  day,  but  the  doctor,  he — the 
doctor  is  afeard  she  is  dying." 

Already  I  repented  my  question.  William  and  his 
wife  seemed  in  league  against  me,  when  they  might 
so  easily  have  chosen  some  other  member. 

"Pobh  the  doctor,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered. 

"  Have  you  been  married  long,  William  ?  " 


THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER.  47 

"  Eight  years,  sir.  Eight  years  ago  she  was — I — 
I  mind  her  when  .   .  .  and  now  the  doctor  says  " ■ 

The  fellow  gaped  at  me.  "  More  coffee,  sir  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  What  is  her  ailment  ?  " 

"  She  was  always  one  of  the  delicate  kind,  but  full 
of  spirit,  and — and  you  see  she  has  had  a  baby 
lately  " 

"  William !" 

"  And  she — I — the  doctor  is  afeard  she's  not  pick- 
ing up." 

"  I  feel  sure  she  will  pick  up." 

"Yes,  sir?" 

It  must  have  been  the  wine  I  had  drunk  that  made 
me  tell  him : 

"  I  was  once  married,  William.  My  wife — it  was 
just  such  a  case  as  yours." 

"  She  did  not  get  better,  sir !  " 

"No." 

After  a  pause,  he  said,  "  Thank  you,  sir,"  meaning 
for  the  sympathy  that  made  me  tell  him  that.  But 
it  must  have  been  the  wine. 

11  That  little  girl  comes  here  with  a  message  from 
your  wife  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  if  she  nods  three  times,  it  means  my  wife 
is  a  little  better." 

"  She  nodded  thrice  to-day." 

"  But  she  is  told  to  do  that  to  relieve  me,  and 
maybe  those  nods  don't  tell  the  truth." 


48  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

"  Is  she  your  girl  ?  " 

"  No,  we  have  none  but  the  baby.  She  is  a  neigh- 
bor's.    She  comes  twice  a  day." 

"  It  is  heartless  of  her  parents  not  to  send  her 
every  hour." 

"  But  she  is  six  years  old,"  he  said,  "  and  has  a 
house  and  two  sisters  to  look  after  in  the  daytime, 
and  a  dinner  to  cook.    Gentlefolk  don't  understand." 

"  I  suppose  you  live  in  some  low  part,  William." 

"  Off  Drury  Lane,"  he  answered,  flushing ;  "  but — 
but  it  isn't  low.  You  see,  we  were  never  used  to 
anything  better,  and  I  mind  when  I  let  her  see  the 
house  before  we  were  married,  she — she  a  sort  of 
cried,  because  she  was  so  proud  of  it.  That  was  eight 
years  ago,  and  now — she's  af eard  she'll  die  when  I'm 
away  at  my  work." 

"  Did  she  tell  you  that  ?" 

"  Never.  She  always  says  she  is  feeling  a  little 
stronger." 

"  Then  how  can  you  know  she  is  afraid  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  know,  sir,  but  when  I  am 
leaving  the  house  in  the  morning  I  look  at  her  from 
the  door,  and  she  looks  at  me,  and  then  I — I  know." 

"  A  green  Chartreuse,  William  ! " 

I  tried  to  forget  William's  vulgar  story  in  bill- 
iards, but  he  had  spoiled  my  game.  My  opponent,  to 
whom  I  can  give  twenty,  ran  out  when  I  was  sixty- 
seven,  and  I  put  aside  my  cue  pettishly.    That  in 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  49 

itself  was  bad  form,  but  what  would  they  have 
thought  had  they  known  that  a  waiter's  impertinence 
caused  it !  I  grew  angrier  with  William  as  the  night 
wore  on,  and  next  day  I  punished  him  by  giving  my 
orders  through  another  waiter. 

As  I  had  my  window  seat,  I  could  not  but  see  that 
the  girl  was  late  again.  Somehow  I  dawdled  over 
my  coffee.  I  had  an  evening  paper  before  me,  but 
there  was  so  little  in  it  that  my  eyes  found  more 
of  interest  in  the  street.  It  did  not  matter  to  me 
whether  William's  wife  died,  but  when  that  girl  had 
promised  to  come,  why  did  she  not  come  ?  These 
lower  classes  only  give  their  word  to  break  it.  The 
coffee  was  undrinkable. 

At  last  I  saw  her.  William  was  at  another  win- 
dow, pretending  to  do  something  with  the  curtains. 
I  stood  up,  pressing  closer  to  the  window.  The 
coffee  had  been  so  bad  that  I  felt  shaky.  She  nodded 
three  times  and  smiled. 

"  She  is  a  little  better,"  William  whispered  to  me, 
almost  gayly. 

"  Whom  are  you  speaking  of  ?  "  I  asked,  coldly,  and 
immediately  retired  to  the  billiard-room,  where  I 
played  a  capital  game.  The  coffee  was  much  better 
there  than  in  the  dining-room. 

Several  days  passed,  and  I  took  care  to  show  Will- 
iam that  I  had  forgotten  his  maunderings.  I  chanced 
to  see  the  little  girl  (though  I  never  looked  for  her) 

every  evening  and  she  always  nodded  three  times, 
4 


50  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER. 

save  once,  when  she  shook  her  head,  and  then  Will- 
iam's face  grew  white  as  a  napkin.  I  remember  this 
incident  because  that  night  I  could  not  get  into  a 
pocket.  So  badly  did  I  play  that  the  thought  of  it 
kept  me  awrake  in  bed,  and  that,  again,  made  me 
wonder  how  AVilliam's  wife  was.  Next  day  I  wTent 
to  the  club  early  (which  was  not  my  custom)  to  see 
the  new  books.  Being  in  the  club  at  any  rate,  I 
looked  into  the  dining-room  to  ask  William  if  I 
had  left  my  gloves  there,  and  the  sight  of  him  re- 
minded me  of  his  wife,  so  I  asked  for  her.  He  shook 
his  head  mournfully,  and  I  went  off  in  a  rage. 

So  accustomed  am  I  to  the  club,  that  when  I  dine 
elsewhere  I  feel  uncomfortable  next  morning,  as  if  I 
had  missed  a  dinner.  William  knew  this  ;  yet  here 
he  was,  hounding  me  out  of  the  club  !  That  evening 
I  dined  (as  the  saying  is)  at  a  restaurant,  where  no 
sauce  was  served  with  the  asparagus.  Furthermore, 
as  if  that  were  not  triumph  enough  for  William,  his 
doleful  face  came  between  me  and  every  dish,  and  I 
seemed  to  see  his  wife  dying  to  annoy  me. 

I  dined  next  day  at  the  club,  for  self-preservation, 
taking,  however,  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  engaging  a  waiter  who  had  once  nearly  poisoned 
me  by  not  interfering  when  I  put  two  lumps  of  sugar 
into  my  coffee  instead  of  one,  which  is  my  allow- 
ance. But  no  William  came  to  me  to  acknowledge 
his  humiliation,  and  by  and  by  I  became  aware  that 
he  was  not  in  the  room.      Suddenly  the  thought 


In  the  library  I  found,  to  my  surprise,  William  on  a  ladder  dusting 

books. 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  51 

struck  me  that  his  wife  must  be  dead,  and  I It 

was  the  worst-cooked  and  the  worst-served  dinner  I 
ever  had  in  the  club. 

I  tried  the  smoking-room.  Usually  the  talk  there 
is  entertaining  ;  but  on  that  occasion  it  was  so  friv- 
olous that  I  did  not  remain  five  minutes.  In  the 
card-room  a  member  told  me,  excitedly,  that  a  police- 
man had  spoken  rudely  to  him ;  and  my  strange 
comment  was : 

"  After  all,  it  is  a  small  matter." 

In  the  library,  where  I  had  not  been  for  years,  I 
found  two  members  asleep,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
William  on  a  ladder  dusting  books. 

"  You  have  not  heard,  sir  ?  "  he  said  in  answer 
to  my  raised  eyebrows.  Descending  the  ladder  he 
whispered,  tragically : 

"  It  was  last  evening,  sir.  I — I  lost  my  head  and  I 
— swore  at  a  member." 

I  stepped  back  from  "William,  and  glanced  appre- 
hensively at  the  two  members.     They  still  slept. 

"  I  hardly  knew,"  William  went  on,  "  what  I  was 
doing  all  day  yesterday,  for  I  had  left  my  wife  so 
weakly  that " 

I  stamped  my  foot. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  speaking  of  her,"  he  had 
the  grace  to  say,  "  but  I  couldn't  help  slipping  to 
the  window  often  yesterday  to  look  for  Jenny,  and 
when  she  did  come  and  I  saw  she  was  crying,  it— it 
a  sort  of  confused  me,  and  I  didn't  know  right,  sir, 


52  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

what  I  was  doing.  I  hit  against  a  member,  Mr. 
Myddleton  Finch,  and  he — he  jumped  and  swore  at 
me.  Well,  sir,  I  had  just  touched  him  after  all,  and 
I  was  so  miserable,  it  a  kind  of  stung  me  to  be 
treated  like — like  that,  and  me  a  man  as  well  as  him, 
and  I  lost  my  senses,  and — and  I  swore  back." 

William's  shamed  head  sank  on  his  chest,  but  I 
even  let  pass  his  insolence  in  likening  himself  to  a 
member  of  the  club,  so  afraid  was  I  of  the  sleepers 
waking  and  detecting  me  in  talk  with  a  waiter. 

"  For  the  love  of  God,"  William  cried,  with  coarse 
emotion,  "  don't  let  them  dismiss  me  ! " 

"  Speak  lower !  "  I  said.     "  Who  sent  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  was  turned  out  of  the  dining-room  at  once,  and 
told  to  attend  to  the  library  until  they  had  decided 
what  to  do  with  me.     Oh,  sir,  I'll  lose  my  place ! " 

He  was  blubbering,  as  if  a  change  of  waiters  was 
a  matter  of  importance. 

"  This  is  very  bad,  William,"  I  said.  "  I  fear  I  can 
do  nothing  for  you." 

"  Have  mercy  on  a  distracted  man  ! "  he  entreated. 
"  I'll  go  on  my  knees  to  Mr.  Myddleton  Finch." 

How  could  I  but  despise  a  fellow  who  would  be 
thus  abject  for  a  pound  a  week  ? 

"  I  dare  not  tell  her,"  he  continued,  "  that  I  have 
lost  my  place.     She  would  just  fall  back  and  die." 

"  I  forbade  your  speaking  of  your  wife,"  I  said, 
sharply,  "  unless  you  can  speak  pleasantly  of  her." 

"  But  she  may  be  worse  now,  sir,  and  I  cannot 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  53 

even  see  Jenny  from  here.  The  library  windows 
look  to  the  back." 

"  If  she  dies,"  I  said,  "  it  will  be  a  warning  to  you 
to  marry  a  stronger  woman  next  time." 

Now,  everyone  knows  that  there  is  little  real  affec- 
tion among  the  lower  orders.  As  soon  as  they  have 
lost  one  mate  they  take  another.  Yet  William,  for- 
getting our  relative  positions,  drew  himself  up  and 
raised  his  fist,  and  if  I  had  not  stepped  back  I  swear 
he  would  have  struck  me. 

The  highly  improper  words  William  used  I  will 
omit,  out  of  consideration  for  him.  Even  while  he 
was  apologizing  for  them  I  retired  to  the  smoking- 
room,  where  I  found  the  cigarettes  so  badly  rolled 
that  they  would  not  keep  alight.  After  a  little 
I  remembered  that  I  wanted  to  see  Myddleton 
Finch  about  an  improved  saddle  of  which  a  friend 
of  his  has  the  patent.  He  was  in  the  news-room, 
and  having  questioned  him  about  the  saddle,  I 
said : 

"  By  the  way,  what  is  this  story  about  your  swear- 
ing at  one  of  the  waiters  ?  " 

"  You  mean  about  his  swearing  at  me,"  Myddle- 
ton Finch  replied,  reddening. 

"  I  am  glad  that  was  it,"  I  said.  "  For  I  could  not 
believe  you  guilty  of  such  bad  form." 

"  If  I  did  swear  " he  was  beginning,  but  I  went 

on  : 

"  The  version  which  reached    me  was  that  you 


54  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

swore  at  him,  and  he  repeated  the  word.  I  heard  he 
was  to  be  dismissed  and  you  reprimanded." 

"  Who  told  you  that  ?  "  asked  Myddleton  Finch, 
who  is  a  timid  man. 

"  I  forget ;  it  is  club  talk,"  I  replied,  lightly.  "  But 
of  course  the  committee  will  take  your  word.  The 
waiter,  whichever  one  he  is,  richly  deserves  his  dis- 
missal for  insulting  you  without  provocation." 

Then  our  talk  returned  to  the  saddle,  but  Myddle- 
ton Finch  was  abstracted,  and  presently  he  said  : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  fancy  I  was  wrong  in  thinking 
that  waiter  swore  at  me,  and  I'll  withdraw  my  charge 
to-morrow." 

Myddleton  Finch  then  left  me,  and,  sitting  alone, 
I  realized  that  I  had  been  doing  William  a  service. 
To  some  slight  extent  I  may  have  intentionally 
helped  him  to  retain  his  place  in  the  club,  and  I  now 
see  the  reason,  which  was  that  he  alone  knows  pre- 
cisely to  what  extent  I  like  my  claret  heated. 

For  a  mere  second  I  remembered  William's  re- 
mark that  he  should  not  be  able  to  see  the  girl  Jenny 
from  the  library  windows.  Then  this  recollection 
drove  from  my  head  that  I  had  only  dined  in  the  sense 
that  my  dinner -bill  was  paid.  Keturning  to  the 
dining-room,  I  happened  to  take  my  chair  at  the 
window,  and  while  I  was  eating  a  devilled  kidney  I 
saw  in  the  street  the  girl  whose  nods  had  such  an 
absurd  effect  on  William. 

The  children  of  the  poor  are  as  thoughtless  as 


"I  was  to  do  like  this."  she  replied   and  went  through  the  supping 
of  something  out  of  a  plate  in  dumb  show. 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  55 

their  parents,  and  this  Jenny  did  not  sign  to  the 
windows  in  the  hope  that  William  might  see  her, 
though  she  could  not  see  him.  Her  face,  which  was 
disgracefully  dirty,  bore  doubt  and  dismay  on  it, 
but  whether  she  brought  good  news  it  would  not  tell. 
Somehow  I  had  expected  her  to  signal  when  she  saw 
me,  and,  though  her  message  could  not  interest  me,  I 
was  in  the  mood  in  which  one  is  irritated  at  that  not 
taking  place  which  he  is  awaiting.  Ultimately  she 
seemed  to  be  making  up  her  mind  to  go  away 

A  boy  was  passing  with  the  evening  papers,  and  I 
hurried  out  to  get  one,  rather  thoughtlessly,  for  we 
have  all  the  papers  in  the  club.  Unfortunately  I 
misunderstood  the  direction  the  boy  had  taken;  but 
round  the  first  corner  (out  of  sight  of  the  club  win- 
dows) I  saw  the  girl  Jenny,  and  so  I  asked  her  how 
William's  wife  was. 

"  Did  he  send  you  to  me  ! "  she  replied,  imperti- 
nently taking  me  for  a  waiter.  "  My !  "  she  added, 
after  a  second  scrutiny, "  I  b'lieve  you're  one  of  them. 
His  missis  is  a  bit  better,  and  I  was  to  tell  him  as 
she  took  all  the  tapiocar." 

"  How  could  you  tell  him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  was  to  do  like  this,"  she  replied,  and  went 
through  the  supping  of  something  out  of  a  plate  in 
dumb  show. 

"  That  would  not  show  she  ate  all  the  tapioca,"  I 
said. 

"  But  I  was  to  end  like  this,"  she  answered,  licking 


56  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER. 

an  imaginary  plate  with  her  tongue.  I  gave  her  a 
shilling  (to  get  rid  of  her),  and  returned  to  the  club 
disgusted. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  had  to  go  to  the  club  li- 
brary for  a  book,  and  while  William  was  looking  in 
vain  for  it  (I  had  forgotten  the  title)  I  said  to  him  : 

"  By  the  way,  William,  Mr.  Myddleton  Finch  is  to 
tell  the  committee  that  he  was  mistaken  in  the  charge 
he  brought  against  you,  so  you  will  doubtless  be 
restored  to  the  dining-room  to-morrow." 

The  two  members  were  still  in  their  chairs,  prob- 
ably sleeping  lightly ;  yet  he  had  the  effrontery  to 
thank  me. 

"  Don't  thank  me,"  I  said,  blushing  at  the  impu- 
tation.    "  Eemember  your  place,  William  !" 

"  But  Mr.  Myddleton  Finch  knew  I  swore,"  he  in- 
sisted. 

"  A  gentleman,"  I  replied,    stiffly,   "  cannot    re 
member  for  twenty-four  hours  what  a  waiter  hay 
said  to  him." 

"No,  sir,  but" 

To  stop  him  I  had  to  say  : 

"And,  ah,  William,  your  wife  is  a  little  bettei\ 
She  has  eaten  the  tapioca — all  of  it.'' 

"  How  can  you  know,  sir  ?  " 

"  By  an  accident." 

"  Jenny  signed  to  the  window  ?  " 

"No." 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  57 

"  Then  you  saw  her,  and  went  out,  and  " 

"  Nonsense ! " 

*  Oh,  sir,  to  do  that  for  me  !    May  God  bl -', 

"William!" 

"  Forgive  me,  sir,  but — when  I  tell  my  missis,  she 
will  say  it  was  thought  of  your  own  wife  as  made  you 
do  it." 

He  wrung  my  hand.  I  dared  not  withdraw  it,  lest 
we  should  waken  the  sleepers. 

"William  returned  to  the  dining-room,  and  I  had  to 
show  him  that,  if  he  did  not  cease  looking  gratefully 
at  me,  I  must  change  my  waiter.  I  also  ordered  him 
to  stop  telling  me  nightly  how  his  wife  was,  but  I 
continued  to  know,  as  I  could  not  help  seeing  the 
girl  Jenny  from  the  window.  Twice  in  a  week  I 
learned  from  this  objectionable  child  that  the  ailing 
woman  had  again  eaten  all  the  tapioca.  Then  I  be- 
came suspicious  of  William.     I  will  tell  why. 

It  began  with  a  remark  of  Captain  Upjohn's.  We 
had  been  speaking  of  the  inconvenience  of  not  being 
able  to  get  a  hot  dish  served  after  1  a.m.,  and  he  said  : 

"  It  is  because  these  lazy  waiters  would  strike.  If 
the  beggars  had  a  love  of  their  work,  they  would  not 
rush  away  from  the  club  the  moment  one  o'clock 
strikes.  That  glum  fellow  who  often  waits  on  you 
takes  to  his  heels  the  moment  he  is  clear  of  the  club 
steps.  He  ran  into  me  the  other  night  at  the  top  of 
the  street,  and  was  off  without  apologizing." 


58  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

"You  mean  the  foot  of  the  street,  Upjohn,"  I  said, 
for  such  is  the  way  to  Drury  Lane. 

"  No ;  I  mean  the  top.  The  man  was  running* 
west." 

"  East." 

"  WesV' 

I  smiled,  \^hich  so  annoyed  him  that  he  bet  me 
two  to  one  in  sovereigns.  The  bet  could  have  been 
decided  most  quickly  by  asking  William  a  question, 
but  I  thought,  foolishly  doubtless,  that  it  might  hurt 
his  feelings,  so  I  watched  him  leave  the  club.  The 
possibility  of  Up  John's  winning  the  bet  had  seemed 
remote  to  me.  Conceive  my  surprise,  therefore, 
when  William  went  westward. 

Amazed,  I  pursued  him  along  two  streets  without 
realizing  that  I  was  doing  so.  Then  curiosity  put 
me  into  a  hansom.  We  followed  William,  and  it 
proved  to  be  a  three-shilling  fare,  for  running  when 
he  was  in  breath  and  walking  when  he  was  out  of  it, 
he  took  me  to  West  Kensington. 

I  discharged  my  cab,  and  from  across  the  street 
wTatched  William's  incomprehensible  behavior.  He 
had  stopped  at  a  dingy  row  of  workmen's  houses, 
and  knocked  at  the  darkened  window  of  one  of  them. 
Presently  a  light  showed.  So  far  as  I  could  see, 
someone  pulled  up  the  blind  and  for  ten  minutes 
talked  to  William.  I  was  uncertain  whether  they 
talked,  for  the  window  was  not  opened,  and  I  felt 
that,  had  William  spoken  through  the  glass  loud 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  59 

enough  to  be  heard  inside,  I  must  have  heard  him 
too.  Yet  he  nodded  and  beckoned.  I  was  still  be- 
wildered when,  by  setting  off  the  way  he  had  come, 
he  gave  me  the  opportunity  of  going  home. 

Knowing  from  the  talk  of  the  club  what  the  lower 
orders  are,  could  I  doubt  that  this  was  some  dis- 
creditable love  affair  of  William's !  His  solicitude 
for  his  wife  had  been  mere  pretence;  so  far  as  it 
was  genuine,  it  meant  that  he  feared  she  might  re- 
cover. He  probably  told  her  that  he  was  detained 
nightly  in  the  club  till  three. 

I  was  miserable  next  day,  and  blamed  the  devilled 
kidneys  for  it.  Whether  William  was  unfaithful  to 
his  wife  was  nothing  to  me,  but  I  had  two  plain 
reasons  for  insisting  on  his  going  straight  home 
from  his  club:  the  one,  that,  as  he  had  made  me 
lose  a  bet,  I  must  punish  him ;  the  other,  that 
he  could  wait  upon  me  better  if  he  went  to  bed 
betimes. 

Yet  I  did  not  question  him.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  face  that Well,  I  seemed  to  see 

his  dying  wife  in  it. 

I  was  so  out  of  sorts  that  I  could  eat  no  dinner. 
I  left  the  club.  Happening  to  stand  for  some  time 
at  the  foot  of  the  street,  I  chanced  to  see  the  girl 

Jenny  coming,  and No ;  let  me  tell  the  truth, 

though  the  whole  club  reads  ;  I  was  waiting  for  her. 

"  How  is  William's  wife  to-day  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  She  told  me  to  nod  three  times,"  the  little  slat- 


60  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

tern  replied ;  "  but  she  looked  like  nothink  but  a 
dead  one  till  she  got  the  brandy." 

"Hush,  child!"  I  said,  shocked.  "You  don't 
know  how  the  dead  look." 

"  Bless  yer,"  she  answered,  "  don't  I  just !  Why, 
I've  helped  to  lay  'em  out.     I'm  going  on  seven." 

"  Is  William  good  to  his  wife  ?  " 

"  Course  he  is.    Ain't  she  his  missis !  " 

"  Why  should  that  make  him  good  to  her  f "  I 
asked,  cynically,  out  of  my  knowledge  of  the  poor. 
But  the  girl,  precocious  in  many  ways,  had  never 
had  my  opportunities  of  studying  the  lower  classes 
in  the  newspapers,  fiction,  and  club  talk.  She  shut 
one  eye,  and  looking  up  wonderingly,  said  : 

"  Ain't  you  green — just !  " 

"  When  does  William  reach  home  at  night  ?  " 

"  'Tain't  night ;  it's  morning.  When  I  wakes 
up  at  half  dark  and  half  light  and  hears  a  door 
shutting  I  know  as  it's  either  father  going  off 
to  his  work  or  Mr.  Hicking  coming  home  from 
his." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Hicking  I " 

"  Him  as  we've  been  speaking  on — William.  We 
calls  him  mister,  'cause  he's  a  toff.  Father's  just 
doing  jobs  in  Covent  Garden,  but  Mr.  Hicking,  he's 
a  waiter,  and  a  clean  shirt  every  day.  The  old 
woman  would  like  father  to  be  a  waiter,  but  he 
hain't  got  the  'ristocratic  look." 

"What  old  woman?" 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  61 

"  Go  'long !  that's  my  mother.  Is  it  true  there's 
a  waiter  in  the  club  just  for  to  open  the  door ! " 

"  Yes,  but " 

"  And  another  just  for  to  lick  the  stamps  !    My  !  " 

M  William  leaves  the  club  at  one  o'clock  1 "  I  said, 
interrogatively. 

She  nodded.  "  My  mother,"  she  said,  "  is  one  to 
talk,  and  she  says  to  Mr.  Hicking  as  he  should 
get  away  at  twelve,  'cause  his  missis  needs  him 
more'n  the  gentlemen  need  him.  The  old  woman 
do  talk." 

"  And  what  does  William  answer  to  that  1 " 

"  He  says  as  the  gentlemen  can't  be  kept  waiting 
for  their  cheese." 

"  But  William  does  not  go  straight  home  when  he 
leaves  the  club  1 " 

"  That's  the  kid." 

"  Kid ! "  I  echoed,  scarcely  understanding,  for 
knowing  how  little  the  poor  love  their  children,  I 
had  asked  William  no  questions  about  the  baby. 

"  Didn't  you  know  his  missis  had  a  kid  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  that  is  no  excuse  for  William's  staying 
away  from  his  sick  wife,"  I  answered,  sharply.  A 
baby  in  such  a  home  as  William's,  I  reflected,  must 

be  trying,  but  still Besides  his  class  can  sleep 

through  any  din. 

"  The  kid  ain't  in  our  court,"  the  girl  explained. 
"  He's  in  W.,  he  is,  and  I've  never  been  out  of  W.  C. ; 
leastwise,  not  as  I  knows  on." 


62  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

"  This  is  W.  I  suppose  you  mean  that  the  child 
is  at  West  Kensington  ?  Well,  no  doubt  it  was  bet- 
ter for  William's  wife  to  get  rid  of  the  child " 

"Better!"  interposed  the  girl.  "  'Tain't  better 
for  her  not  to  have  the  kid.  Ain't  her  not  having 
him  what  she's  always  thinking  on  when  she  looks 
like  a  dead  one." 

"  How  could  you  know  that  ? " 

"  'Cause/'  answered  the  girl,  illustrating  her  words 
with  a  gesture,  "  I  watches  her,  and  I  sees  her  arms 
going  this  way,  just  like  as  she  wanted  to  hug  her 
kid." 

"  Possibly  you  are  right,"  I  said,  frowning,  "  but 
William  had  put  the  child  out  to  nurse  because  it 
disturbed  his  night's  rest.  A  man  who  has  his  work 
to  do " 

"  You  are  green ! " 

"  Then  why  have  the  mother  and  child  been  sepa- 
rated?" 

"  Along  of  that  there  measles.  Near  all  the  young 
'uns  in  our  court  has  'em  bad." 

"  Have  you  had  them  ?  " 

"  I  said  the  young  'uns." 

"And  William  sent  the  baby  to  West  Kensington 
to  escape  infection  ?  " 

"  Took  him,  he  did." 

"  Against  his  wife's  wishes  ?  " 

"  Na-o ! " 

"  You  said  she  was  dying  for  want  of  the  child  ?  " 


THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER.  63 

"Wouldn't  she  rayther  die  than  have  the  kid  die?" 

"  Don't  speak  so  heartlessly,  child.  Why  does 
William  not  go  straight  home  from  the  club  I  Does 
he  go  to  West  Kensington  to  see  it !  " 

"  'Tain't  a  hit,  it's  an  'e.     'Course  he  do." 

"  Then  he  should  not.  His  wife  has  the  first  claim 
on  him." 

"  Ain't  you  green !  It's  his  missis  as  wants  him 
to  go.  Do  you  think  she  could  sleep  till  she  knowed 
how  the  kid  was  1 " 

"  But  he  does  not  go  into  the  house  at  West  Ken- 
sington t " 

"  Is  he  soft !  Course  he  don't  go  in,  fear  of  taking 
the  infection  to  the  kid.  They  just  holds  the  kid  up 
at  the  window  to  him,  so  as  he  can  have  a  good  look. 
Then  he  comes  home  and  tells  his  missis.  He  sits 
foot  of  the  bed  and  tells." 

"  And  that  takes  place  every  night !  He  can't 
have  much  to  tell." 

"  He  has  just." 

"  He  can  only  say  whether  the  child  is  well  or  ill." 

"  My !  He  tells  what  a  difference  there  is  in  the 
kid  since  he  see'd  him  last." 

"  There  can  be  no  difference !  " 

"  Go  'long !  Ain't  a  kid  always  growing  ?  Haven't 
Mr.  Hicking  to  tell  how  the  hair  is  getting  darker, 
and  heaps  of  things  beside  !  " 

"Such  as  what?" 

"  Like  whether  he  larfed,  and  if  he  has  her  nose, 


64:  THE  INCONSIDERATE  WAITER. 

and  how   as  he  knowed  him.     He  tells  her  them 
things  more'n  once." 

"  And  all  this  time  he  is  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed ! " 

"  'Cept  when  he  holds  her  hand." 
"  But  when  does  he  get  to  bed  himself  ? " 
"He  don't  get  much.    He  tells  her  as  he  has  a 
sleep  at  the  club." 
"  He  cannot  say  that." 

"  Hain't  I  heard  him  ?    But  he  do  go  to  his  bed  a 
bit,  and  then  they  both  lies  quiet,  her  pretending 
she  is  sleeping  so  as  he  can  sleep,  and  him  feared  to 
sleep  case  he  shouldn't  wake  up  to  give  her  the 
bottle  stuff." 
"  What  does  the  doctor  say  about  her !  " 
"  He's  a  good  one,  the  doctor.    Sometimes  he  says 
she  would  get  better  if  she  could  see  the  kid  through 
the  window." 
"  Nonsense ! " 

"  And  if  she  was  took  to  the  country." 
"  Then  why  does  not  William  take  her  ? " 
"My!   you  are  green!    And  if  she   drank  port 
wines." 

"  Doesn't  she ! " 

"  No  ;  but  William  he  tells  her  about  the  gentle- 
men drinking  them/' 

On  the  tenth  day  after  my  conversation  with  this 
unattractive  child  I  was  in  my  brougham,  with  the 


Disagreeable  circumstances,  therefore,  compelled  me  to  take  tea 
with  a  waiter's  family. 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER,  65 

windows  up,  and  I  sat  back,  a  paper  before  my  face 
lest  anyone  should  look  in.  Naturally,  I  was  afraid 
of  being  seen  in  company  of  William's  wife  and 
Jenny,  for  men  about  town  are  uncharitable,  and, 
despite  the  explanation  I  had  ready,  might  have 
charged  me  with  pitying  William.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  William  was  sending  his  wife  into  Surrey  to 
stay  with  an  old  nurse  of  mine,  and  I  was  driving 
her  down  because  my  horses  needed  an  outing.  Be- 
sides, I  was  going  that  way,  at  any  rate. 

I  had  arranged  that  the  girl  Jenny,  who  was  wear- 
ing an  outrageous  bonnet,  should  accompany  us, 
because,  knowing  the  greed  of  her  class,  I  feared 
she  might  blackmail  me  at  the  club. 

William  joined  us  in  the  suburbs,  bringing  the 
baby  with  him,  as  I  had  foreseen  they  would  all  be 
occupied  with  it,  and  to  save  me  the  trouble  of  con- 
versing with  them.  Mrs.  Hicking  I  found  too  pale 
and  fragile  for  a  workingman's  wife,  and  I  formed  a 
mean  opinion  of  her  intelligence  from  her  pride  in 
the  baby,  which  was  a  very  ordinary  one.  She  cre- 
ated quite  a  vulgar  scene  when  it  was  brought  to 
her,  though  she  had  given  me  her  word  not  to  do  so ; 
what  irritated  me,  even  more  than  her  tears,  being 
her  ill-bred  apology  that  she  "  had  been  'feard  baby 
wouldn't  know  her  again."  I  would  have  told  her 
they  didn't  know  anyone  for  years  had  I  not  been 
afraid  of  the  girl  Jenny,  who  dandled  the  infant  on 

her  knees  and  talked  to  it  as  if  it  understood.     She 
5 


66  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

kept  me  on  tenterhooks  by  asking  it  offensive  ques- 
tions :  such  as,  "  Oo  know  who  give  me  that  bon- 
net ? "  and  answering  them  herself,  "  It  was  the 
pretty  gentleman  there/'  and  several  times  I  had  to 
affect  sleep  because  she  announced,  "  Kiddy  wants 
to  kiss  the  pretty  gentleman.' ' 

Irksome  as  all  this  necessarily  was  to  a  man  of 
taste,  I  suffered  even  more  when  we  reached  our  des- 
tination. As  we  drove  through  the  village  the  girl 
Jenny  uttered  shrieks  of  delight  at  the  sight  of 
flowers  growing  up  the  cottage  walls,  and  declared 
they  were  "just  like  a  music-'all  without  the  drink 
license."  As  my  horses  required  a  rest,  I  was  forced 
to  abandon  my  intention  of  dropping  these  persons 
at  their  lodgings  and  returning  to  town  at  once,  and 
I  could  not  go  to  the  inn  lest  I  should  meet  inquis- 
itive acquaintances.  Disagreeable  circumstances, 
therefore,  compelled  me  to  take  tea  with  a  waiter's 
family — close  to  a  window,  too,  through  which  I 
could  see  the  girl  Jenny  talking  excitedly  to  vil- 
lagers, and  telling  them,  I  felt  certain,  that  I  had 
been  good  to  William.  I  had  a  desire  to  go  out  and 
put  myself  right  with  those  people. 

William's  long  connection  with  the  club  should 
have  given  him  some  manners,  but  apparently  his 
class  cannot  take  them  on,  for,  though  he  knew  I 
regarded  his  thanks  as  an  insult,  he  looked  them 
when  he  was  not  speaking  them,  and  hardly  had  he 
sat  down,  by  my  orders,  than  he  remembered  that  I 


THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER.  67 

was  a  member  of  the  club,  and  jumped  up.  Nothing 
is  in  worse  form  than  whispering,  yet  again  and 
again,  when  he  thought  I  was  not  listening,  he  whis- 
pered to  Mrs.  Hicking,  "  Tou  don't  feel  faint  ? "  or 
"  How  are  you  now  !  "  He  was  also  in  extravagant 
glee  because  she  ate  two  cakes  (it  takes  so  little  to 
put  these  people  in  good  spirits),  and  when  she  said 
she  felt  like  another  being  already,  the  fellow's  face 
charged  me  with  the  change.  I  could  not  but  con- 
clude, from  the  way  Mrs.  Hicking  let  the  baby 
pound  her,  that  she  was  stronger  than  she  had  pre- 
tended. 

I  remained  longer  than  was  necessary,  because  I 
had  something  to  say  to  William  which  I  knew  he 
would  misunderstand,  and  so  I  put  off  saying  it. 
But  when  he  announced  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
return  to  London,  at  which  his  wife  suddenly  paled, 
so  that  he  had  to  sign  to  her  not  to  break  down,  I 
delivered  the  message. 

"  William,"  I  said,  "  the  head  waiter  asked  me  to 
say  that  you  could  take  a  fortnight's  holiday  just 
now.    Your  wages  will  be  paid  as  usual." 

Confound  them!  William  had  me  by  the  hand, 
and  his  wife  was  in  tears  before  I  could  reach  the 
door. 

"  Is  it  your  doing  again,  sir  !  "  William  cried. 

"  William  !  "  I  said,  fiercely. 

"  We  owe  everything  to  you,"  he  insisted.  "  The 
port  wine  "— . 


68  THE  INCONSIDERATE   WAITER. 

"  Because  I  had  no  room  for  it  in  my  cellar." 

"  The  money  for  the  nurse  in  London  " 

"  Because  I  objected  to  being  waited  on  by  a  man 
who  got  no  sleep." 

"  These  lodgings  " 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  do  something  for  my  old 
nurse." 

"  And  now,  sir,  a  fortnight's  holiday !  " 
"  Good-by,  William ! "  I  said,  in  a  fury. 
But  before  I  could  get  away,  Mrs.  Hicking  signed 
to  William  to  leave  the  room,  and  then  she  kissed  my 
hand.    She  said  something  to  me.    It  was  about  my 

wife.    Somehow  I- What  business  had  William 

to  tell  her  about  my  wife  ? 

They  are  all  back  in  Drury  Lane  now,  and  William 
tells  me  that  his  wife  sings  at  her  work  just  as  she 
did  eight  years  ago.  I  have  no  interest  in  this,  and 
try  to  check  his  talk  of  it ;  but  such  people  have  no 
sense  of  propriety,  and  he  even  speaks  of  the  girl 
Jenny,  who  sent  me  lately  a  gaudy  pair  of  worsted 
gloves  worked  by  her  own  hand.  The  meanest  ad- 
vantage they  took  of  my  weakness,  however,  was  in 
calling  their  baby  after  me.  I  have  an  uncomfort- 
able suspicion,  too,  that  William  has  given  the  other 
waiters  his  version  of  the  affair,  but  I  feel  safe  so 
long  as  it  does  not  reach  the  committee. 


THE  PLAYWRIGHT  AND  THE  FOWL. 

This  odd  story  was  told  me  in  the  smoking-room 
of  the  Garrick  Theatre  on  the  first  night  of  "  Lady 
Bountiful,"  the  narrator  being  a  dramatist  only  less 
popular  than  Mr.  Pinero  himself.  We  had  been 
talking  of  the  nervousness  of  some  authors  during 
the  first  performance  of  their  plays. 

"  The  dramatists  of  the  past  were  less  afraid  of 
their  public's  verdict,''  said  one  of  the  company. 
"  Was  it  not  Charles  Lamb  who  blandly  joined  in 
the  hissing  of  his  own  piece  ?  " 

"That  is  told  of  him,"  the  dramatist  answerecj, 
"though  I  have  often  wondered  whether  he  hissed 
very  loudly.  Besides,  in  those  days  the  author  got 
little  for  his  play,  while  nowadays  it  is  worth  a  fort- 
une or  nothing." 

"Are  you  nervous  on  a  first  night?"  someone 
asked  him. 

"  Yes,  my  first  nights  are  a  trial  to  me  nowadays," 
the  playwright  answered,  very  gloomily.  "  Yet  there 
was  a  time  when  I  took  them  calmly." 

"How  curious,"  remarked  someone,  "that  ner 
vousness  should  have  come  with  experience." 

"It  is  not  so  much  nervousness,"  replied  the  play- 


70  THE  PLAYWRIGHT  AND  THE  FOWL. 

wright,  "  as  a  detestable  self-consciousness.  I  have 
lost  faith  in  my  work,  or  rather  in  my  own  judg- 
ment of  it.  Formerly  I  knew  if  a  speech  or  a  situ- 
ation would  be  effective,  but  now  I  can  never  feel 
certain  that  my  best  things  will  not  be  received  with 
derision." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  the  change  1 " 

"  It  all  came  about  through  my  going  into  the 
country  to  write  a  play.  I  have  never  been  the 
same  man  since.  I  left  the  farm-house,  where  I  had 
gone  for  quietness,  without  writing  the  play ;  but  the 
proud  brute  had  already  worked  his  mischief  on 
me.  I  see  him  at  this  moment,  I  dream  about  him, 
I  am  always  hearing  him." 

"  What  proud  brute  !  " 

"  It  was  a  fowl,  a  little  bantam  cock,  that  I  en- 
countered fifty  times  a  day.  Until  that  fowl  came 
into  my  life  (and  marred  it)  I  never  knew  what 
pride  was.  Until  it  took  to  eying  me  sideways  I 
never  realized  what  is  meant  by  the  scorn  of  scorns. 
Until  it  stood  determinedly  in  my  way  I  never  felt 
fear.  Until  it  strutted  by  me  I  never  really  knew 
that  I  was  a  thing  of  no  consequence.  Until  it 
crowed  at  me  I  never  felt  that  I  was  found  out 
and  despised.  I  assure  you,  that  exasperating  fowl 
had  an  effect  on  my  health  as  well  as  on  my 
work." 

"  Never  mind  your  health.  How  did  it  affect  your 
work  ? " 


THE  PLAYWRIGHT  AND  THE  FOWL.  71 

"  Disastrously.  You  know  that  scene  in  the  do- 
mestic drama  where  " 

"  But  what  domestic  drama  ?  9' 

"  Oh,  in  all  domestic  dramas,  where  the  smooth 
villain,  after  being  spurned  by  the  heroine,  shows 
himself  in  his  true  colors,  and  is  repulsed  by  her 
with  the  haughty  words,  '  Ah,  now  I  know  you ! 
Stand  back,  and  let  me  pass ! '  Well,  that  was  a 
situation  I  used  to  come  out  strong  in — I  always 
kneiv  it  would  go.  But  the  hateful  fowl  has  altered 
all  that.  On  a  first  night  I  sit  in  my  box  in  anguish, 
feeling  that  the  situation  will  be  laughed  at.  You 
see  it  all  depends  on  the  actress's  capacity  for  draw- 
ing herself  up  and  looking  very  haughty.  But 
haughtiness  at  once  brings  that  bantam  before  my 
eyes.  No  woman,  however  great  a  genius  she  may 
be,  can  draw  herself  up  quite  so  proudly  as  that 
fowl  did,  and  while  she  is  drawing  herself  up  I  see 
not  her  but  it.  I  tremble  lest  the  audience  remem- 
bers the  fowl  also." 

"In  the  next  scene,"  continued  the  unfortunate 
playwright,  "  the  heroine  is  usually  shown  in  poor 
lodgings.  The  machinations  of  the  villain  has  sent 
the  hero,  her  husband,  to  jail,  or  to  the  wars,  and 
the  villain  reappears  to  press  his  suit.  She  has  her 
little  child  with  her ;  and  the  child,  refusing  to  favor 
his  friendly  advances,  runs  to  her  mother.  I  used  to 
have  absolute  faith  in  that  scene,  but  a  cold  sweat 
breaks  out  on  me  now  when  the  curtain  rises  on  it." 


72  THE  PLAYWRIGHT  AND  THE  FOWL. 

"  The  bantam  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  bantam  !  At  the  farm  I  soon  despaired 
of  getting  round  the  brute  itself,  but  I  tried  to  make 
friends  of  some  chickens  by  flinging  them  crumbs. 
Instead  of  accepting  the  crumbs  they  fluttered  their 
wings  and  ran  to  the  bantam,  which  stood  in  the 
middle  of  them,  looking  at  me  precisely  as  the 
young  mother  in  the  domestic  drama  looks  at  the 
villain.  The  stage  direction  for  the  lady  is  'Re- 
gards him  with  the  air  of  a  queen/  and  the  air  of 
a  queen  is  very  much  the  air  of  a  king,  which,  again, 
is  a  mere  copy  from  the  air  of  a  bantam  cock.  In 
the  play  the  foiled  villain  retires  grinding  his  teeth, 
just  as  I  used  to  retire  from  the  presence  of  that 
fowl.  When  the  villain  reaches  the  door  he  turns 
round  to  say  something  blood-curdling,  and  the  lady 
answers  him  with  a  look  of  contempt.  It  was  with 
such  threats  that  I  left  the  bantam,  with  such  con- 
tempt that  he  received  them.  Then  take  the  last 
scene  in  the  play.  If  it  is  a  room,  there  is  a  door — 
centre,  as  we  say  technically  ;  and  if  it  is  an  open-air 
scene  there  is  a  rustic  gate,  centre.  Well,  the  villain 
is  having  everything  his  own  way.  The  lady  be- 
lieves her  husband  to  be  dead,  and  meditates  marry- 
ing the  villain  (who  has  persuaded  her  that  he  is 
virtuous)  for  the  sake  of  her  child.  The  villain 
walks  triumphantly  to  the  gate,  centre,  when  sud- 
denly the  hero  enters,  centre.  The  crushed  villain 
falls  back  down  stage,  where  a  policeman  enters 


THE  PLAYWRIGHT  AND  THE  FOWL.  73 

L.  1e.  in  time  to  slip  the  handcuffs  on  him.  There  is 
no  safer  ending  to  a  domestic  drama  than  that,  and  if 
what  preceded  had  given  satisfaction  I  used  to  feel 
that  all  was  well.  But  it  is  an  agonizing  scene  to 
me  now.  There  was  a  gate  in  the  farm-yard,  where 
I  constantly  met  the  bantam.  For  the  moment  I 
had  forgotten  the  brute.  I  was  off  to  fish,  full  of 
hope  and  merry,  when  suddenly  there  was  that  fowl 
eying  me,  just  as  the  hero  eyes  the  villain.  I  can 
assure  you  that  no  villain  on  the  stage  falls  back 
from  virtue  more  precipitately  than  I  retreated  from 
the  bantam.  How  can  I  sit  composedly  through  the 
first  night  of  my  plays  when  it  seems  to  me  that  at 
the  end  of  every  dramatic  speech  and  in  the  middle 
of  every  situation  I  hear  cock-a-doodle-doo  ?  " 


THE  "  FOX-TERRIER  n  FRISKY. 

About  a  month  ago  I  saw  in  the  street  an  open 
carriage  containing  a  fox-terrier.  In  its  efforts  to 
express  its  contempt  for  a  passing  car,  the  dog 
barked  itself  over  the  side  of  the  carriage  on  to  the 
curbstone.  Next  moment  I  saw  the  carriage  draw 
up,  and  the  coachman  alight  as  if  to  look  for  some- 
thing. "What  this  something  was  I  never  dis- 
covered, for  I  had  picked  up  the  poor  little  dog 
and  gone  home  with  it.  There  was  a  collar  round 
its  neck  with  some  writing  on  it,  which  I  did  not 
think  myself  justified  in  reading.  To  this  collar  I 
subsequently  took  a  dislike,  and  I  destroyed  it.  I 
have  since  thought  that  the  dog  may  have  belonged 
to  the  owners  of  the  carriage. 

Thus  strangely  did  I  become  owner  of  a  fox- 
terrier,  which,  as  one  may  say,  came  unsolicited  to 
my  door.  The  romantic  manner  in  which  the  little 
waif  claimed  me  for  its  master  touched  my  heart, 
and  as  I  wanted  a  fox-terrier,  at  any  rate,  I  had  not 
the  cruelty  to  turn  it  away.  In  justice  to  myself  I 
should  say  that  I  wanted  the  dog  for  another. 

Having  explained  to  my  landlady  how  the  little 
animal  had  followed  me  home,  I  proceeded  to  train 


THE   "FOX-TERRIER"  FRISKY.  75 

it.  The  first  difficulty  was  to  get  hold  of  it,  for  if  I 
followed  it  to  one  side  of  the  room  it  retired  to  the 
other  side.  An  onlooker  might  have  thought  that 
we  were  playing  at  a  parlor  game.  I  sat  down  by 
the  fire  to  smoke  until  the  dog  behaved  better,  and 
then  the  man  in  the  next  house  took  to  interfering. 
There  was  only  a  wall  between  him  and  me,  and  we 
were  not  friendly  because  once,  when  he  coughed 
for  more  than  a  week,  I  sent  him  a  request  to  stop 
it.  I  suppose  he  heard  me  and  the  dog  exchanging 
greetings,  for  he  knocked  through  the  wall,  as  if  a 
disturbance  in  my  room  was  any  affair  of  his.  The 
dog  barked  every  time  he  thumped,  and  so  they 
went  at  it  until  the  training  of  my  faithful  follower 
recommenced. 

The  dog  would  not  let  me  go  to  it,  but  it  came  to 
me  when  I  offered  it  food,  and  if  I  could  have  con- 
tinued feeding  it  night  and  day,  it  would  never  have 
left  my  side.  Thus  early  in  its  career  it  showed  a 
sagacity  that  promised  intellectual  attainments  of  a 
high  order.     These  promises  were  never  fulfilled. 

Dogs  being,  it  is  said,  reasoning  animals,  I 
thought  I  would  give  this  one  a  chance  of  fixing  on 
its  own  name.  I  wrote  a  number  of  names  on 
slips  of  paper  and  put  them  into  the  coal-scuttle, 
which  is  always  empty,  though  my  landlady  says 
she  is  always  filling  it.  I  invited  the  dog  to 
select  whichever  name  he  preferred.  Only  a  few 
days  before  I  had  read  of  a  dog  which,  being  re- 


76  THE  "FOX-TERRIER"  FRISKY. 

quested  to  christen  itself  out  of  a  coal-scuttle, 
picked  out  a  slip  without  a  moment's  hesitation ; 
but  my  dog  was  either  fastidious  or  had  no  longer 
any  interest  in  the  matter  when  it  discovered  that 
the  pieces  of  paper  were  not  biscuits,  for  it  merely 
put  its  nose  into  the  coal-scuttle  and  then  withdrew. 
I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  looked  upon  a 
name  as  something  not  worth  burdening  itself  with, 
for  so  long  as  I  had  it,  it  answered  to  no  name  if  I 
had  not  a  biscuit  in  my  hand,  and  to  any  name  if  I 
was  so  provided.  One  day  my  landlady,  who  also  ex- 
perimented with  the  dog,  came  up  and  told  me  she 
thought  it  liked  to  be  called  "  Frisky."  I  remem- 
bered that  the  word  "  Frisky "  had  been  on  the 
collar,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  perhaps  this  dog 
has  had  a  previous  owner  who  called  it  "Frisky." 
This,  of  course,  was  merely  a  guess,  but  it  was  worth 
experimenting  upon,  so  I  said  "  Frisky  "  to  the  dog, 
and  immediately  it  came  to  me.  Then  the  landlady 
called  "  Frisky,"  and  it  ran  to  her.  We  were  in 
high  glee,  but  unfortunately  I  have  ever  been  of  a 
suspicious  nature,  and  I  was  not  absolutely  con- 
vinced. So  I  experimented  further.  I  called  "  Fris- 
ket "  to  the  dog,  and  it  not  only  ran  to  me,  but 
wagged  its  tail.  Thus  were  my  unhappy  suspicions 
confirmed.  The  dog  only  answered  to  the  name 
"  Frisky  "  because  it  sounded  like  "  Biscuit." 

I  have  already  said  that  there  is  a  low  character 
who  lives  next  door  to  me.    A  few  days  after  the 


THE  "FOX-TERRIER"  FRISKY.  77 

dog  followed  me  home  this  person  sent  me  a  letter. 
It  was  only  an  envelope  containing  a  scrap  of 
paper,  but  I  knew  that  it   came  from  him.     The 

scrap  of  paper  said :  "  Lost  in Street,  February 

4th,  a  fox-terrier  ;  collar  on  neck  with  address.  Ap- 
ply,   .   Note. — Police  are  instituting  inquiries." 

Why  the  gentleman  next  door  sent  me  this  I  can- 
not say.  My  impression,  however,  is  that  he  wanted 
to  annoy  me.  I  could,  of  course,  have  handed  him 
over  to  the  authorities,  but  I  remembered  that  some 
day  he  might  have  a  wife  and  children.  In  the  cir- 
cumstances I  thought  it  better  to  let  his  insinua- 
tions pass,  and  tell  my  landlady  to  keep  the  dog 
indoors.  Owing  to  some  oversight  I  left  the  news- 
paper scrap  on  my  mantelpiece,  where  my  landlady 
read  it.  She  turned  red  as  she  did  so,  and  indeed 
looked  so  guilty  that  for  a  moment  there  flashed 
through  my  mind  the  horrid  thought,  What  if  she 
stole  this  dog !  The  suspicion  was  unworthy  of  me, 
so  I  took  the  advertisement  from  her  and  sternly 
asked  her  to  fill  the  coal-scuttle.  When  she  returned 
the  scrap  of  newspaper  was  gone,  nor  have  I  seen  it 
since. 

This  dog  which  I  had  taken  from  the  street,  where 
I  found  it  starving,  brought  me  annoyance  from 
various  sources.  I  wanted  a  fox-terrier  for  a  lady, 
and  naturally  I  was  anxious  that  it  should  be  a 
gentle  animal.  Despite  all  I  had  done,  the  dog  was 
never  gentle  to  me,  repeatedly  taking  me  by  the 


7S  THE  "FOX-TERRIER"   FRISKY. 

ankles.  Entirely  owing  to  this  dog,  I  have  at  pres- 
ent to  write  with  my  left  hand.  It  was  equally 
vicious  with  my  landlady,  and  once,  when  I  forgot 
to  call  it  back  (not  that  it  would  have  minded  me),  it 
bit  the  man  next  door.  Having  read  a  great  deal 
about  the  dogs,  however,  I  knew  that  though  argu- 
mentative with  men  and  landladies,  they  are  often 
everything  that  could  be  desired  with  ladies  and 
children.  I  had  unfortunately  no  opportunity  of 
trying  the  dog  with  ladies,  but  my  landlady  had  a 
baby.  Fearing  that  she  might  not  be  willing  to 
lend  the  child  for  purposes  of  experiment,  I  waited 
till  she  left  the  house  one  day,  when  I  proceeded  to 
her  apartments,  where  the  infant  lay.  I  lifted  it 
up  by  the  waistband  and  carried  it  carefully  to  my 
room,  where  for  safety  I  deposited  it  in  the  coal- 
scuttle, which  was  empty  as  usual.  Then  I  intro- 
duced the  dog  and  baby,  and  awaited  results. 
Whether  the  dog  would  have  behaved  as  they  do  in 
books,  or  have  resented  the  baby's  not  being  a  bis- 
cuit, will  never  be  known,  for  at  that  moment  my 
landlady  returned.  When  she  saw  the  child  in  the 
coal-scuttle  (this  being  the  only  time  that  coal- 
scuttle was  ever  full)  she  said  things  which  I  dis- 
dain to  repeat. 

I  forget  whether  it  was  now,  or  after  the  receipt 
of  an  insulting  letter,  that  I  began  to  wonder  what 
would  be  the  best  way  of  getting  rid  of  the  dog. 
The  letter  said,  "  It  will  be  the  worse  for  you  if  you 


THE  "  FOX-TERMER  "   FRISKY.  79 

do  not  return  within  three  days  the  dog-  you  stole." 
The  note  was  unsigned,  but  I  recognized  the  writing 
as  that  of  the  person  who  disgraces  our  respectable 
neighborhood.  Of  course  I  scorned  his  insinuation, 
and  openly  defied  him ;  but  the  dog,  I  now  saw, 
would  not  suit,  and  I  cannot  be  expected  to  turn 
my  room  into  a  home  for  lost  dogs.  I  therefore 
determined  to  do  without  this  dog. 

Two  friends  came  to  see  me  that  evening,  and 
they  got  to  know  at  once  that  I  now  kept  a  dog.  I 
told  them  that  I  had  reasons  of  an  entirely  private 
nature  for  wanting  to  sell  the  dog,  and  pointed  out 
the  beauties  of  this  one  to  them.  They  said,  how- 
ever, that  they  did  not  want  a  dog,  and  they  would 
not  even  take  this  one  for  nothing.  I  tried  to  make 
it  run  after  them,  feeling  that  they  ought  to  have  a 
dog,  but  the  ungrateful  little  brute  would  not  go. 
Next  morning  a  letter  from  my  anonymous  corre- 
spondent awaited  me  at  the  breakfast-table.  It  said 
simply,  "  This  is  your  last  day."  In  a  court  of  jus- 
tice this  could  have  been  proved  to  be  a  threat  of 
murder,  though  it  had  also  another  interpretation. 
I  snapped  my  fingers,  both  hands,  at  my  contemp- 
tible neighbor,  who  evidently  did  not  know  the  kind 
of  man  he  had  to  deal  with.  Then  I  went  out  with 
the  dog.  We  proceeded  toward  the  address  given 
in  the  advertisement  about  the  lost  dog.  It  had 
struck  me  as  just  possible  that  the  dog  which  fol- 
lowed me  home  was  the  dog  that  had  been  lost. 


80  THE   "FOX-TERRIER"   FRISKY. 

Possibly  my  neighbor  meant  to  imply  this,  but  if 
so,  why  did  he  not  put  it  more  plainly?  Of  course, 
had  I  thought  for  a  moment  that  he  meant  to  call 
me  a  thief,  I  would  have  proceeded  against  him  at 
once. 

I  went  to  the  address  referred  to,  and  asked  the 
servant  who  answered  the  bell  whether  this  dog  was 
like  the  one  that  had  been  lost.  She  said  it  was  the 
same,  whereupon  I  explained  briefly  how  it  had 
followed  me  home.  The  servant  entreated  me  to 
come  in,  as  her  master  would  like  to  see  me. 
Doubtless  she  meant  that  he  wanted  to  reward  me, 
but  I  desired  no  reward ;  I  merely  wanted  to  do  my 
duty,  and  I  walked  away  very  quickly  from  the  door. 
I  have  not  been  bribed  to  make  this  statement. 


THE   FAMILY  HONOR. 


Much  of  the  story  of  the  Glendowie  Monster,  now 
on  the  tongues  of  all  in  the  North  who  are  not 
afraid  to  speak,  has  been  born  of  ugly  fancies  since 
the  night  of  September  4,  1890,  when  that  happened 
which  sent  the  county  to  bed  with  long  candles  for 
the  rest  of  the  month.  I  was  at  Glendowie  Castle 
that  night,  and  I  heard  the  scream  that  made  nigh 
two  hundred  people  suddenly  stand  still  in  the 
dance ;  but  of  what  is  now  being  said  I  take  no 
stock,  thinking  it  damning  to  a  noble  house ;  and 
of  what  was  said  before  that  night  I  will  repeat  only 
the  native  gossip  and  the  story  of  the  children, 
which  I  take  to  be  human  rather  than  the  worst 
horror  of  all,  as  some  would  have  it.  Thus  I  am 
left  with  almost  naught  to  tell  save  what  I  saw  or 
heard  at  the  Castle  on  the  night  of  September  4th  ; 
and  to  those  who  would  have  all  things  accounted 
for  it  will  seem  little,  though  for  me  more  than 
enough. 

There  are  those  in  Glendowie  who  hold  that  this 
Thing  has  been  in  the  castle,  and  there  held  down 
by  chains,  since  the  year  1200,  when  the  wild  Lady 


82  THE  FAMILY  HONOR. 

Mildred  gave  it  birth  and  died  of  sight  of  it ;  and  in 
the  daylight  (but  never  before  wine)  they  will  speak 
the  name  of  her  lover ;  and  so  account  for  1200  a.d. 
being  known  in  the  annals  of  that  house  not  as  a 
year  of  our  Lord  but  as  the  year  of  the  Devil.  I  am 
not  sufficiently  old-fashioned  for  such  a  story,  and 
rather  believe  that  the  Thing  was  never  in  the 
castle  until  the  coming  home  from  Africa  of  him 
who  was  known  as  the  Left-Handed  Earl,  which 
happened  a  matter  of  seventy  years  ago.  The  se- 
cret manner  of  his  coming  and  the  oddness  of  his 
attendants,  with  a  wild  story  of  his  clearing  the 
house  of  all  other  servants  for  fifteen  days,  during 
which  he  was  not  idle,  raised  a  crop  of  scandal  that 
has  not  yet  been  cut  level  with  the  earth.  To  be 
plain,  it  is  said  by  those  who  believe  witchcraft  to 
be  done  with  that  the  Left-Handed  Earl  brought 
the  Thing  from  Africa,  and  in  fifteen  days  had  a 
home  made  for  it  in  the  castle — a  home  that  none 
could  find  the  way  to  save  himself  and  a  black  ser- 
vant who  frequently  disappeared  for  many  days  at 
a  time,  yet  was  known  always  to  be  within  whistle 
of  his  master.  Men  said  furtively  that  this  Thing 
was  the  heir,  and  again  there  was  the  Devil's  shad- 
ow in  the  story,  as  if  the  Devil  could  be  a  woman. 

Half  a  century  ago  the  Left-Handed  Earl  died, 
and  they  will  tell  you  of  a  three  days'  search  for  a 
minister  brave  enough  to  pray  by  the  open  coffin, 
and  that  in  the  middle  of  the  prayer  the  mourners 


THE  FAMILY  HONOR.  83 

rose  to  their  feet  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  because 
of  something  squatting  on  the  corpse's  chest.  There 
are  many  such  stories  of  the  Thing,  against  which 
all  who  might  have  seen  shut  their  eyes  so  quickly 
that  no  two  drew  the  same  likeness.  But  this  is  no 
great  matter,  for  what  they  saw  I  will  not  tell,  and  I 
would  that  none  had  ever  told  me. 

There  have  been  four  earls  since  then,  but,  if  the 
tale  of  the  Thing  be  true,  not  one  of  them  lawful 
earl.  Yet  until  September  4,  1890,  since  the  time  of 
the  Left-Handed  Earl,  it  has  always  been  the  same 
black  servant  who  waited  on  the  Thing,  so  that 
many  marvelled  and  called  these  two  one,  as  they 
were  not.  Of  the  earls  I  have  nothing  to  tell  that 
could  not  be  told  by  other  men,  save  this,  that  they 
paced  their  halls  by  night,  and  have  ever  had  an  air 
of  listening  not  to  what  was  being  said  to  them,  but 
as  if  for  some  sudden  cry  from  beyond.  And  I  have 
heard  tell  that  though  brave  men  in  war,  they  would 
not  go  into  a  dark  place :  even  for  a  wife,  which  was 
the  bribe  offered  to  one  of  them. 

It  is  not  a  pretty  story,  except  for  what  is  told  of 
the  Monster's  love  of  children;  and  though  until 
September  4,  1890,  I  never  believed  what  was  told 
of  the  Thing  and  these  children,  I  believe  it  now. 
What  they  say  is  that  it  was  so  savage  that  not  even 
the  black  servant  could  have  gone  within  reach  of  it 
and  lived ;  yet  with  children  scarce  strong  enough  to 
walk,  save  on  all-fours,  it  would  play  for  hours  even 


84  THE  FAMILY  HONOR. 

as  they  played,  but  with  a  mother's  care  for  them. 
There  are  men  of  all  ages  in  these  parts  who  hold 
that  they  were  with  it  in  their  childhood  and  loved 
it,  though  now  they  shudder  at  a  picture  they  re- 
call, I  think,  but  vaguely.  And  some  of  them, 
doubtless,  are  liars.  It  may  be  wondered  why  the 
lords  of  Glendowie  dared  let  a  child  into  the  power 
of  one  that  could  have  broken  themselves  across  its 
knee ;  and  two  reasons  are  given :  the  first,  that  it 
knew  when  there  were  children  in  the  castle,  and 
would  have  broken  down  walls  to  reach  them  had 
they  not  been  brought  to  it ;  the  other,  that  compas- 
sion induced  the  earls  to  give  it  the  only  pleasure  it 
knew.  Of  these  children  some  were  of  the  tenantry 
and  others  of  guests  in  the  castle,  and  I  have  not 
heard  of  one  that  dreaded  the  monster.  To  them  it 
ever  seems  to  have  been  lovable  ;  and  if  half  of  the 
stories  be  true  they  would  let  it  toss  them  sportively 
in  the  air,  and  they  would  sit  with  their  arms  round 
its  neck  while  it  made  toys  for  them  of  splinters  of 
wood  or  music  by  rattling  its  chains.  I  need  not 
say  that  care  was  taken  to  keep  these  meetings  from 
the  parents  of  the  children,  in  which  conspiracy  the 
children  unconsciously  joined,  for  their  pleasant 
prattle  of  their  new  friend  allayed  suspicion  rather 
than  roused  it.  Nevertheless,  queer  rumors  arose 
in  recent  times,  which  I  dare  say  few  believed  who 
came  from  a  distance ;  yet  were  they  sufficiently 
disquieting  to  make  guests  leave  their  children  at 


THE  FAMILY  HONOR.  85 

home,  and,  as  I  understand,  on  September  4,  1890, 
several  years  had  passed  since  a  child  had  slept  in 
the  castle.  On  that  night  there  were  many  guests, 
and  one  child,  who  had  been  in  bed  for  some  hours 
when  the  Thing  broke  loose. 

II. 

The  occasion  was  the  coming  of  age  of  the  heir, 
and  seldom,  I  suppose,  has  there  been  such  a  com- 
pany in  a  house  renowned  for  hospitality.  There 
were  many  persons  from  distant  parts,  which  means 
London,  and  all  the  great  folk  of  our  county,  with 
others  not  so  great  in  that  gathering,  though  capable 
of  making  a  show  at  most.  After  the  dancing  be- 
gins no  man  is  ever  a  prominent  figure  in  a  room  to 
those  who  are  there  merely  to  look  on,  as  I  was ; 
and  I  now  remember,  as  the  two  whom  my  eyes  fol- 
lowed with  greatest  pleasure,  our  hostess,  a  woman 
of  winning  manners  yet  cold  when  need  be,  and  the 
lady  who  wras  shortly  to  become  her  daughter,  a 
languid  girl,  pretty  to  look  at  when  her  lover,  the 
heir,  was  by  her  side.  I  know  that  nearly  all  pres- 
ent that  night  speak  now  of  a  haggard  look  on  the 
earl's  face,  and  of  quick  glances  between  him  and 
his  wife  ;  I  know  they  say  that  the  heir  danced  much 
to  keep  himself  from  thinking,  and  that  his  arm 
chattered  on  the  waists  of  his  partners ;  I  know  the 
story  that  he  had  learned  of  the  existence  of  the 


86  THE  FAMILY  HONOR. 

Thing  that  night.  But  I  was  present,  and  I  am  per- 
suaded that  at  the  time  all  thought,  as  I  did,  that 
never  was  a  gayer  scene  even  at  Glendowie,  never 
a  host  and  hostess  more  cordial,  never  a  merry-eyed 
heir  more  anxious  to  be  courteous  to  all  and  more 
than  courteous  to  one.  The  music  was  a  marvel  for 
the  country.  Dance  succeeded  dance.  The  hour 
was  late,  but  another  waltz  was  begun.  Then  sud- 
denly  

And  at  once  the  music  stopped  and  the  dancers 
were  as  still  as  stone  figures.  It  had  been  a  hor- 
rible, inhuman  scream,  so  loud  and  shrill  as  to  tear 
a  way  through  all  the  walls  of  the  castle ;  a  scream 
not  of  pain  but  of  triumph.  I  think  it  must  have 
lasted  half  a  minute,  and  then  came  silence,  but  still 
no  one  moved :  we  waited  as  if  after  lightning  for 
the  thunder. 

The  first  person  I  saw  was  the  earl.  His  face  was 
not  white  but  gray.  His  teeth  were  fixed,  and  he 
was  staring  at  the  door,  waiting  for  it  to  open. 
Some  men  hastened  to  the  door,  and  he  cast  out  his 
arms  and  drove  them  back.  But  he  never  looked  at 
them.  The  heir  I  saw  with  his  hands  over  his  face. 
Many  of  the  men  stepped  in  front  of  the  women. 
There  was  no  whispering,  I  think.  We  all  turned 
our  eyes  to  the  door. 

Some  ladies  screamed  (one,  I  have  heard, 
swooned  ;  but  we  gave  her  not  a  glance)  when  the 
door  opened.    It  was  only  the  African  servant  who 


THE  FAMILY  HONOR.  87 

entered,  a  man  most  of  us  had  heard  of  but  few  had 
seen.  He  made  a  sign  to  the  earl,  who  drew  back 
from  him  and  then  stepped  forward.  The  heir 
hurried  to  the  door,  and  some  of  us  heard  this  con- 
versation : 

"  Not  you,  father;  me." 

"  Stay  here,  my  son  ;  I  entreat,  I  command." 

"Both,"  said  the  servant,  authoritatively;  and 
then  they  went  out  with  him  and  the  door  closed. 

The  dancing  was  resumed  almost  immediately. 
This  is  a  strange  thing  to  tell.  Only  a  woman 
could  have  forced  us  to  seem  once  more  as  we  were 
before  that  horrid  cry;  and  the  woman  was  our 
hostess.  As  the  door  closed  my  eyes  met  her ;  and 
I  saw  that  she  had  been  speaking  to  the  musicians. 
She  was  smiling  graciously,  as  if  what  had  occurred 
had  been  an  amusing  interlude.  I  saw  her  take 
her  place  beside  her  partner,  and  begin  the  waltz 
again  with  the  music.  All  looked  at  her  with 
amazement,  dread,  pity,  suspicion,  but  they  had  to 
dance.  "  Does  she  know  nothing  ?  "  I  asked  myself, 
overhearing  her  laughing  merrily  as  she  was  whirled 
past  me.  Or  was  this  the  Woman's  part  in  the 
tragedy  while  the  men  were  doing  theirs  ?  What 
were  they  doing  ?  It  was  whispered  in  the  ball- 
room that  they  were  in  the  open,  looking  for  some- 
thing that  had  escaped  from  the  castle. 

An  hour,  I  dare  say,  passed,  and  neither  the  earl 
nor  his  son  had  returned.     The  dancing  went  on, 


88  THE  FAMILY  HONOR. 

but  it  had  become  an  uncanny  scene :  every  one  try- 
ing to  read  the  other's  face,  the  men  uncomfortable 
as  if  feeling*  that  they  should  be  elsewhere,  many  of 
the  women  craven,  only  the  countess  in  high  spirits. 
By  this  time  it  was  known  to  all  of  us  that  the  door 
of  the  ball-room  was  locked  on  the  outside.  Guests 
bade  our  hostess  good-night,  but  could  retire  no 
further.  One  man  dared  request  her  to  bid  the  ser- 
vants unlock  the  door,  and  she  smiled  and  asked 
him  for  the  next  waltz. 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  many  of  us 
heard  a  child's  scream,  that  came,  as  we  thought, 
from  the  hall  of  the  castle.  A  moment  afterward 
we  again  heard  it— this  time  from  the  shrubbery.  I 
saw  the  countess  shake  with  fear  at  last,  but  it 
was  only  for  a  moment.  Already  she  was  beckoning 
to  the  musicians  to  continue  playing.  One  of  the 
guests  stopped  them  by  raising  his  hand ;  he  was 
the  father  of  the  child. 

"You  must  bid  your  servants  unbar  that  door," 
he  said  to  the  countess,  sternly,  "  or  I  will  force  it 
open." 

"  You  cannot  leave  this  room,  sir ,"  she  an- 
swered, quite  composedly ;  and  then  he  broke  out 
passionately,  fear  for  his  child  mastering  him. 
Something  about  devil's  work  he  said. 

"  There  is  someone  on  the  other  side  of  that  door 
who  would  not  hesitate  to  kill  you,"  she  replied; 
and  we  knew  that  she  spoke  of  the  native  servant. 


THE  FAMILY  HONOR.  89 

"  Order  him  to  open  the  door." 

"I will  not." 

In  another  moment  the  door  would  have  been 
broken  open,  had  she  not  put  her  back  against  it. 
Her  eyes  were  now  flashing.  The  men  looked  at 
each  other  in  doubt,  and  some  of  them,  I  know,  were 
for  tearing  her  from  the  door.  It  was  then  that  we 
heard  the  report  of  a  gun. 

It  is  my  belief  that  the  countess  saved  the  life  of 

Sir by  preventing  his  leaving  the  ball-room. 

For  close  on  another  hour  she  stood  at  the  door, 
and  the  servants  gathered  round  her  like  men  ready 
to  support  their  mistress.  We  were  now  in  groups, 
whispering  and  listening,  and  I  shall  tell  what  I 
heard,  believing  it  to  be  all  that  was  heard  by  any  of 
us,  though  some  of  those  present  that  night  now  tell 
stranger  tales.  I  heard  a  child  laughing,  and  I 
doubt  not  that  we  were  meant  to  hear  it,  to  appease 
the  parents'  fears.  I  heard  the  tramp  of  men  in  the 
hall  and  on  the  stairs,  and  afterward  an  unpleasant 
dirge  from  above.  A  carriage  drove  up  the  walk 
and  stopped  at  the  door.  Then  came  heavy  noises 
on  the  stair,  as  of  some  weight  being  slowly  moved 
down  it.  By  and  by  the  carriage  drove  off.  The 
earl  returned  to  the  ball-room,  but  no  one  was 
allowed  to  leave  it  until  daybreak.  I  lost  sight 
of  the  countess  when  the  earl  came  in,  but  many 
say  that  he  whispered  something  to  her,  to  which 
she  replied  "  Thank  God!"  and  then  fainted.    No 


90  THE  FAMILY  HONOR. 

explanation  of  this  odd  affair  was  given  to  the 
company ;  but  it  is  believed  that  the  Thing,  what- 
ever it  was,  was  shot  that  night  and  taken  away 
by  the  heir  and  the  servant  to  Africa,  there  to  be 
buried. 


THE   WICKED  CIGAR. 

Count  Tolstoi  has  a  well-considered  and  temper- 
ate paper  in  the  Contemporary  Review  for  February 
1891,  on  the  effects  of  smoking.  He  maintains  that 
tobacco  makes  fiends  of  men,  and  cites  several  well- 
known  cases  in  which  murderers  could  not  do  the 
deed  until  they  had  smoked  a  cigarette.  That  to- 
bacco fires  us  to  villany  there  can  be  no  doubt,  I 
think.     That  is  why  I  smoke. 

All  the  villains  I  know  smoke.  It  is  notorious 
that  publishers  take  a  few  whiffs  before  drawing  up 
the  agreement  which  they  send  to  authors  to  sign. 
I  observe  that  when  the  Irish  members  were  meet- 
ing in  Committee  Eoom  No.  15,  they  retired  at  inter- 
vals to  the  smoking-room.  Could  we  divide  them 
into  smokers  and  non-smokers,  we  should  know  for 
certain  which  are  the  real  patriots.  The  following, 
I  have  reason  to  believe,  is  the  true  history  of  the 
American  Copyright  bill :  The  English  Authors' 
Society  bribed  the  doctors  of  America  to  forbid 
the  legislators  there  to  smoke.  Then  the  bill  was 
passed  at  once.  A  hitch  has  since  occurred,  how- 
ever. The  explanation  is  that  the  American  pub- 
lishers forwarded  a  cigar  (Eegalia,  full-flavored)  to 


92  THE  WICKED  CIGAR. 

each  member  of  the  Senate.  The  critics  smoke  all 
the  time  they  are  reviewing-  my  books.  Nearly 
every  editor  smokes.  The  editor  of  the  Illustrated 
London  News  does  not  smoke.     So  he  says. 

For  my  own  part,  I  should  give  up  smoking 
gladly  if  I  could  discover  any  easier  way  of  feeling 
villanous.  As  it  is,  I  must  be  .a  villain  now  and 
again,  for  two  reasons.  One  is  that,  in  the  course 
of  business,  I  have  to  meet  publishers  and  editors. 
They  smoke  when  they  know  I  am  coming,  and  I 
smoke  because  I  know  they  are  smoking.  The  other 
day,  for  instance,  I  called  on  the  editor  of  Black  and 
White.  I  had  brought  my  natural  character,  the 
name  of  which  is  Amiability,  with  me ;  but  as  I  was 
about  to  enter  the  office  I  hastily  drew  back,  remem- 
bering the  type  of  man  with  whom  I  had  to  deal.  I 
hurried  to  the  nearest  tobacconist's  shop,  took  three 
whiffs,  and  then  kept  my  appointment  with  the 
editor.  It  is  thus  that  authors  prime  themselves  for 
business.  Of  course,  if  editors  and  the  like  were 
willing  to  give  up  smoking,  we  should  be  delighted 
to  do  so  too,  and  meet  them  as  honest  men. 

I  have  spoken  of  another  reason  for  smoking.  It 
only  holds  with  novelists.  People  sometimes  ask 
me  why  all  novelists  are  such  depraved  characters, 
and  my  reply  (if  any)  is  that  the  novelist  who  re- 
spects his  art  must  smoke.  The  critics  frequently 
say  of  a  novelist  that  he  does  not  get  inside  a  cer- 
tain character.    If  you  have  the  pluck  to  read  the 


THE  WICKED  CIGAR.  93 

novel  as  well  as  the  review  of  it,  you  will  find,  five 
times  in  six,  that  it  is  the  villain  whom  the  novelist 
does  not  get  inside  of.  In  other  words,  the  novelist 
has  not  smoked.  To  draw  a  character  well  an  au- 
thor must  sympathize  with  him — must,  for  the  time 
being,  identify  himself  with  him.  Now,  there  is 
only  one  way  of  getting  in  touch  with  a  villain. 
You  must  smoke.  If  the  villain  is  merely  the  vic- 
tim of  circumstances,  an  occasional  cigarette  is 
sufficient.  A  villain  who  in  the  last  chapter  hears 
the  Christmas  chimes,  bursts  into  tears,  and  is  will- 
ing to  begin  a  new  life  in  Canada,  can  also  be  done 
on  cigarettes.  On  the  other  hand,  a  pipe  is  needed 
for  the  lady  adventuress  (especially  if  she  smokes 
herself);  nor  can  one  hope  on  cigarettes  to  get 
inside  a  villain  with  two  wives.  Cigars  may  be 
avoided,  except  where  the  villain  is  at  the  very  top 
of  his  profession.  Thackeray  made  Becky  Sharp 
out  of  Manillas,  but  had  to  take  to  Cabanas  (Ma- 
duro)  for  the  chapters  about  Lord  Steyne.  I  have 
been  told  that  Mr.  Christie  Murray  becomes  very 
dejected  when  he  has  to  write  of  rascals,  as  the 
smell  of  tobacco,  not  to  speak  of  its  taste,  is  most 
offensive  to  him.  "Why  don't  you  tell  us  more 
of  shady  life  in  Simla  1 "  some  one  said  recently 
to  Mr.  Kipling.  "  My  dear  sir,"  he  replied,  "  I 
can't  be  always  smoking."  Mr.  Payn  doubtless 
learned  to  smoke  while  writing  "  Lost  Sir  Massing- 
berd." 


94  THE   WICKED   CIGAR. 

The  much-discussed  "  unhappy  ending  "  question 
is  merely  a  matter  of  tobacco,  for  if  the  novelist  did 
not  smoke  he  could  never  kill  any  of  his  characters. 
It  is  true  that  female  novelists  occasionally  end 
their  stories  unhappily,  and  yet  are  not  themselves 
smokers  (unless  they  belong  to  the  gifted  new 
school).  But  on  inquiry  you  would  find,  I  expect, 
that  these  ladies  have  villanous  husbands  or  broth- 
ers. When  the  author  feels  that  she  must  end  her 
story  sadly,  she  doubtless  asks  the  nearest  villain  to 
come  into  her  room  and  smoke  while  she  writes.  If 
you  find  a  man  smoking  in  a  conservatory  he  will 
give,  as  his  reason,  that  tobacco  kills  the  insects 
which  are  in  league  to  destroy  his  wife's  flowers. 
Count  Tolstoi  should  have  drawn  attention  to  this 
wholesale  murder.  He  might  have  compared  the 
husbands  in  the  conservatory  to  the  husbands  in 
their  wives'  writing-rooms,  smoking  their  utmost,  to 
the  destruction  of  doomed  heroes  and  heroines.  It 
has  been  pointed  out  frequently  that  the  wives  of 
geniuses  have  their  troubles,  but  so  have  the  hus- 
bands of  geniuses.  If  the  lady's  genius  takes  the 
form  of  fiction,  her  husband,  as  we  have  seen,  is 
compelled  to  be  a  villain,  that  he  may  help  her  on 
with  her  work.  The  male  novelist,  however,  is  his 
own  villain.  I  never  heard  of  a  male  genius  so  lost 
to  all  sense  of  shame  that  he  ordered  his  wife  to  sit 
beside  him  and  smoke  while  he  put  some  inoffensive 
character  in  his  story  to  death.    It  is  notorious  that 


THE   WICKED   CIGAR.  95 

the  wives  of  novelists  are  untiring  in  their  efforts  to 
hide  their  husbands'  tobacco-pouch ;  but  is  this  be- 
cause they  would  save  their  husbands  from  villany  ? 
Those  who  are  in  a  position  to  decide  say  not. 
Their  story  is  that  the  wife  of  the  novelist  is  in  plot 
with  the  editor  in  whose  magazine  the  novel  ap- 
pears. Editors  never  sleep  at  nights,  from  a  fear 
that  their  novelist  means  to  end  his  story  un- 
happily, and  so  decrease  the  magazine's  circulation. 
They  accordingly  warn  his  wife  that  unless  the 
heroine  and  hero  marry  in  the  last  chapter  they  will 
never  again  invite  her  husband  to  write  for  them. 
What  can  the  poor  lady  do  %  She  has  the  housing 
and  clothing  of  her  children  to  think  of,  and  there- 
fore she  conceals  her  husband's  tobacco,  knowing 
that  he  will  not  have  the  cruelty  to  separate  his  lov- 
ers, unless  there  is  a  pipe  in  his  mouth.  We  are 
constantly  reading  in  the  papers  that  "  Mr.  Dash, 
the  well-known  novelist,  has  left  London  for  a  quiet 
fishing  village  on  the  east  coast,  where  he  intends  to 
finish  the  story  upon  which  he  is  at  present  en- 
gaged." The  public  has  no  understanding  of  the 
significance  of  this  paragraph,  but  the  editor  shud- 
ders when  he  reads  it.  He  translates  it  thus  :  "  Mr. 
Dash,  the  novelist  with  a  sneaking  fondness  for  un- 
happy endings,  has  escaped  for  a  fortnight  from  his 
wife's  control,  and  is  now  smoking  heavily  in  a  fish- 
ing village  whose  name  he  is  keeping  secret.  We 
understand  that  Mr.  Dash,  who  had  promised  to  end 


96  THE  WICKED  CIGAB. 

his  new  story  happily,  has  changed  his  mind,  and 
decided  to  kill  the  hero  and  heroine  in  each  other's 
arms." 

I  need  say  no  more,  except  that  I  smoked  a  cigar- 
ette before  writing  this  article. 


THE    RESULT    OF    A    TRAMP    IN 
SURREY. 

Possibly  I  am  a  little  old-fashioned  in  my  views  of 
professional  courtesy.  At  any  rate,  when  Watson 
and  Miller  suggested  a  tramp  through  Surrey  from 
Dorking  to  Sheire  in  honor  of  May  Day,  I  consented, 
on  the  understanding  that  it  was  to  be  a  tramp  and 
nothing  more.  If  I  had  thought  that  either  of  them 
proposed  making  an  article  out  of  it,  I  would  have 
stayed  at  home.  For  one  thing,  it  was  not  fair  to 
me  (who  trusted  them),  and  for  another,  I  fail  to  see 
why  pressmen  should  be  unable  to  enjoy  Nature 
without  making  copy  of  her.  That  Miller  and 
Watson  felt  they  were  meditating  a  mean  thing  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  each  kept  his  intentions  to 
himself.  Whether  either  suspected  the  other,  I 
cannot  say,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  know  that  I 
had  implicit  trust  in  both  until  I  caught  them  in  the 
act.  Mine  is  not  a  suspicious  nature,  but  they  do 
not  seem  to  know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  in 
journalism  as  esprit  de  corps.  At  least  Watson  does 
not,  for,  as  you  will  see,  he  shows  even  worse  than 
Miller.  It  is  painful  to  expose  even  one's  friends, 
but  still  I  don't  mind  doing  it. 


98       THE  RESULT  OF  A   TRAMP  IN  SURREY. 

Where  possible,  it  is  my  custom  to  combine 
pleasure  with  business  ;  and  my  intention  was  to 
write  a  light,  readable  paper  on  our  walk,  putting  it 
in  such  a  form  that  I  could  make  a  background,  so 
to  speak,  of  Miller  and  Watson,  who  have  some 
laughable  points  about  them  that  would  amuse 
newspaper  readers.  Of  course  I  said  nothing  of 
this  to  them  because,  as  already  mentioned,  I 
trusted  them.  Had  I  suspected  for  one  moment 
that  either  of  them  intented  an  article,  I  would  have 
written  mine  that  night,  after  I  returned  home,  so 
that  theirs  would  have  been  too  late.  That,  as  you 
will  learn,  was  what  Watson  did,  I  suppose  because 
he  mistrusted  Miller;  for  though  I  may,  for  all  I 
know,  have  my  faults,  to  steal  a  march  on  my 
friends  is  not  one  of  them.  Perhaps  my  idea  of 
the  perfect  gentleman  is  too  fine  for  common  use, 
though  I  try  to  live  up  to  it.  How  true  is  it  that 
each  of  us  makes  himself  the  measures  of  his  sur- 
roundings. Being  without  guile  myself,  I  antici- 
pated none  from  Miller  and  Watson.  They,  on  the 
other  hand,  having  unworthy  designs  in  their  minds, 
suspected  each  other. 

Watson  having  forestalled  me  in  a  way  that  does 
him  little  credit,  I  shall  say  nothing  of  our  walk. 
Suffice  it  that  we  drank  in  the  ozone  of  the  Surrey 
hills  and  dined  pleasantly  at  Sheire,  I  unsuspecting, 
believing  them  as  loyal  to  me  as  I  to  them,  and 
drawing  them  out  in  the  hope  that  they  would  say 


TEE  RESULT  OF  A    TRAMP  IN  SURREY.       99 

a  few  good  things.  We  parted  in  the  evening  at 
Charing  Cross,  without  either  of  them  saying  a 
word  of  his  mean  intentions,  and  next  forenoon  I 
wrote  about  half  of  my  article.  Owing  to  Watson's 
perfidy  that  article  is  merely  waste  paper,  though 
the  description  of  the  pine-woods  and  the  roar  of 
the  wind  among  the  trees  were  both  prettily  done. 
The  little  bit  about  the  kitten,  which  followed  Wat- 
son through  Sheire,  too,  would  have  made  him  as 
ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the  public  as  it  did  to  the 
villagers.  However,  there  is  no  use  thinking  of  that 
now,  I  merely  mention  it,  because  it  suggests  the 
kind  of  man  Watson  turns  out  to  be.  I  meant  to 
finish  my  article  before  I  went  to  bed,  but  in  the 
evening  I  went  to  see  Miller,  who  lives  near  Willes- 
den.  He  was  in  his  bedroom,  which  opens  off  his 
sitting-room,  when  I  arrived,  and  instead  of  coming 
forward  politely  to  welcome  me,  as  I  would  have 
done  had  he  called  on  me,  he  shouted  out  in 
his  brusque  way,  "  Oh,  is  it  you,  Ogilvy  ?  sit  down." 
This  rudeness  on  the  part  of  Miller  —  for  I  can 
call  it  nothing  else— found  him  out,  for  as  I  looked 
about  me  for  something  to  do  (that  is,  for  his 
cigar-case)  I  caught  sight  of  two  pieces  of  paper 
on  the  table.  Now  I  am  the  last  person  in  the 
world  to  give  way  to  curiosity,  but  seeing  that  there 
was  writing  on  both  sheets,  I  took  a  look  at  them. 
In  a  flash  I  saw  what  Miller  was  after.  The  man 
who  called  himself  my  friend,  had  basely  deceived 


100      THE  RESULT  OF  A   TRAMP  W  SURREY. 

me;  and  here  was  the  damning  evidence  of  his 
guilt.  The  one  paper  consisted  of  notes  about  our 
tramp  in  Surrey ;  on  the  other  he  had  actually 
begun  his  article,  or  rather  tried  several  beginnings. 
I  could  not  have  believed  it  had  I  not  seen  it  with 
my  own  eyes.  One  attempt  began  :  "  To  the  jaded 
Londoner,  who  breathes  smoke  instead  of  air,  what 

can  be  pleasanter  than  a  tramp  across ."     There 

was  another  :  "  It  has  been  frequently  observed  that 
God  made  the  country,  while  man  made  the  town. 

I  felt  this  with  a  new  force  on  May  Day  when " 

Again  :  "  Thanks  to  our  much  -  abused  railway 
system,  the  pine  -  woods  of  Surrey  have  become  a 

suburb  of  London.     Here  the  jaded "     Lastly : 

"  With  the  advent  of  summer,  the  dweller  in  cities 

casts  his  longing  eyes "  As  for  the  notes,  they 

showed  Miller  in  an  even  baser  light.  One  of  them 
was  "  Ogilvy  and  the  kitten— touch  it  up  a  little  ; " 
so  that  it  was  evidently  Miller's  intention  to  say 
that  the  kitten  at  Sheire  followed  me  !  The  "  touch 
it  up  a  little  "  too,  suggested  a  depth  of  moral  de- 
pravity that  I  had  never  dreamed  of  in  Miller.  I  had 
just  time  to  replace  the  papers  on  the  table  before 
he  came  in,  and  when  he  saw  them,  conscience  made 
him  blush.  He  thrust  them  into  his  pocket  hastily, 
and  then  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  as  if  I  had  any 
interest  in  his  papers.  I  hate  these  unworthy 
suspicions,  but  of  course  I  said  nothing.  Several 
times  that  evening  Miller  asked  me  what  I  had  been 


THE  RESULT  OF  A   TRAMP  IN  SURREY.      101 

doing*  with  myself  all  day.  A  striking  illustration 
this  of  the  way  in  which  suspicion  haunts  the  guilty 
mind.     Of  course  I  did  not  tell  him. 

"  Been  writing  anything  particular  1 "  he  asked, 
with  affected  carelessness. 

"Nothing  particular,"  I  answered,  though  the 
deceit  of  the  man  exasperated  me.  Perhaps  you  ask 
why  I  sat  on.  That  is  easily  answered.  In  the 
circumstances,  I  need  not  say  Miller's  company 
(which  is  at  no  time  very  enlivening),  was  more  a 
pain  than  a  pleasure  to  me,  but  on  the  other  hand  I 
knew  he  wanted  me  to  go.  Most  fortunately  I  was 
aware  of  Miller's  many  weaknesses,  of  which  one  is 
a  habit  of  taking  things  leisurely.  I  felt  that  if  I 
stayed  with  him  till  ten  o'clock,  he  would  not  write 
his  article  that  night.  So  I  stayed  till  ten  and  then 
hurried  home  to  finish  my  article.  This  seemed  the 
best  way  of  punishing  Miller  for  his  duplicity.  Here 
I  would  again  call  the  reader's  attention  to  the  fact 
that  I  had  still  absolute  faith  in  Watson.  A  less 
generous  mind  would  have  reflected  that  if  the  one 
friend  abused  my  confidence,  so  might  the  other. 
But  I  wrote  and  posted  my  article,  suspecting  no 
guile. 

Consider  the  pain  with  which  I  got  the  article  back 
next  day,  with  the  accompanying  note  from  the 
editor :  "  Dear  Mr.  Ogilvy :  I  am  sorry  to  have  to 
return  this,  but  I  received  by  an  earlier  post  a  very 
similar  paper  about  a  Surrey  tramp  from  Mr.  Wat- 


102      THE  RESULT  OF  A   TRAMP  IN  SURREY. 

son,  which  is  now  in  the  printers'  hands."  It  is 
difficult  to  recall  without  prejudice  a  scene  in  which 
one  has  himself  played  a  prominent  part,  and  un- 
doubtedly there  was  a  scene  in  my  chambers  on 
receipt  of  this  communication.  Nevertheless,  I  am 
quite  certain  that  shame  was  my  uppermost  feeling  ; 
shame  to  think  that  Watson  could  have  done  this 
thing— I  was  pained,  cut  to  the  heart.  If  it  had  been 
any  other,  I  would  not  have  minded,  but  it  was  hard 
that  the  blow — the  stab  in  the  back — should  have 
been  given  by  Watson,  from  whom  I  have  never  had 
a  secret.  I  was  wondering  whether  I  had  better  go 
to  Miller's  when  the  bell  rang,  and  next  moment 
Miller  bounced  into  the  room.  He  had  a  newspaper 
in  his  hand.  "  Was  it  you  who  wrote  this  ? "  he 
cried. 

"  Wrote  what  ?  "  I  asked,  whereupon  he  pointed 
to  an  article — Watson's  article — on  a  tramp  in 
Surrey.  It  annoyed  me  to  think  that  Miller  could 
suspect  me,  even  for  a  moment,  of  such  an  under- 
hand proceeding.  I  told  him  so.  He  begged  my 
pardon,  and  we  gripped  hands ;  but,  of  course,  I  was 
less  warm  than  Miller,  for  I  knew  all  the  time  that 
with  him  it  was  merely  a  case  of  selfish  disappoint- 
ment. On  that  head,  however,  I  said  nothing,  so  we 
made  common  cause  against  Watson.  First  we  read 
over  his  article  carefully,  and  among  its  minor  blem- 
ishes picked  out  four  mixed  metaphors,  a  misquo- 
tation, a  clear  case  of  plagiarism,  and  some  very 


THE  RESULT  OF  A   TRAMP  IN  SURREY.     103 

clumsy  English.  How  any  editor  could  have 
printed  such  a  paper  surprised  both  of  us,  but  more 
especially  me,  as  I,  of  course,  knew  that  he  had 
another  much  better  one  which  he  could  have  used 
instead.  Its  style,  however,  was  the  article's  least 
offence.  If  Watson  was  to  be  so  mean  as  to  make 
an  article  out  of  what  was  intended  to  be  merely  a 
relaxation,  he  might  have  done  it  decently.  Instead 
of  confining  himself  to  the  tramp  and  the  scenery 
we  passed  through,  he,  with  execrable  taste,  held  up 
his  companions  to  ridicule,  and  had  the  effrontery 
to  incorporate  into  his  paper  the  remarks  which  he 
had  drawn  out  of  us  at  the  Sheire  inn.  Miller  was 
especially  annoyed,  because  it  was  said  that  the 
kitten  already  mentioned  followed  him.  That  I 
consider  a  trifle,  and  not  worth  making  a  fuss  about. 
To-night  we  mean  to  call  on  Watson  together  and 
tell  him  what  we  think  of  him,  though,  of  course,  I 
cannot  help  feeling  that  Miller  is  every  whit  as  bad 
as  Watson.  I  thank  my  conscience  that  I,  at  least, 
am  not  the  kind  of  man  who  would  make  an  article 
out  of  his  friends. 


MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK. 

Long  before  I  married  George  I  knew  that  he  was 
dreadfully  ambitious.  We  were  not  yet  engaged 
when  he  took  me  into  his  confidence  about  his  forth- 
coming great  book,  which  was  to  take  the  form  of 
an  inquiry  into  the  Metaphysics  of  Ethics.  "  I  have 
not  begun  it  yet,"  he  always  said,  "  but  I  shall  be  at 
it  every  night  once  the  winter  sets  in."  In  the  day- 
time George  is  only  a  clerk,  though  a  much-valued 
one,  so  that  he  has  to  give  the  best  hours  of  his  life 
to  a  ledger. 

"  If  you  only  had  more  time  at  your  disposal,,,  I 
used  to  say,  when  he  told  me  of  the  book  that  was 
to  make  his  name. 

"  I  don't  complain,"  he  said,  heartily,  like  the  true 
hero  he  always  is,  except  when  he  has  to  take  medi- 
cine. "Indeed,  you  will  find  that  the  great  books 
have  nearly  always  been  written  by  busy  men.  I 
am  firmly  of  opinion  that  if  a  man  has  original  stuff 
in  him  it  will  come  out." 

He  glowed  with  enthusiasm  while  he  spoke  in  this 
inspiriting  strain,  and  some  of  his  ardor  passed  into 
me.    When  we  met  we  talked  of  nothing  but  his 


MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK.  105 

future ;  at  least  lie  talked  while  I  listened  with 
clasped  hands.  It  was  thus  that  we  became  en- 
gaged. George  was  no  ordinary  lover.  He  did  not 
waste  his  time  telling  me  that  I  was  beautiful,  or 
saying  "  Beloved  !  "  at  short  intervals.  No,  when  we 
were  alone  he  gave  me  his  hand  to  hold,  and  spoke 
fervently  of  the  Metaphysics  of  Ethics. 

Our  engagement  was  not  of  a  very  long  duration, 
for  George  coaxed  me  into  marriage  thus--"  I  can- 
not settle  down  to  my  book,"  he  said,  "  until  we  are 
married." 

His  heart  was  so  set  on  that  book  that  I  yielded. 
We  wandered  all  over  London  together  buying  the 
furniture.  There  was  a  settee  that  I  particularly 
wanted,  but  George,  with  his  usual  thoughtfulness, 
said: 

"  Let  us  rather  buy  a  study  table.  It  will  help 
me  at  my  work,  and  once  the  book  is  out  we  shall 
be  able  to  afford  half  a  dozen  settees." 

Another  time  he  went  alone  to  buy  some  pictures 
for  the  drawing-room. 

"  I  got  a  study  chair  instead,"  he  told  me  in  the 
evening.  "  I  knew  you  would  not  mind,  my  darling, 
for  the  chair  is  the  very  thing  for  writing  a  big 
book  in." 

He  even  gave  thought  to  the  ink-bottle. 

"  In  my  room,"  he  said,  "  I  am  constantly  dis- 
covering that  my  ink-bottle  is  empty,  and  it  puts  me 
out  of  temper  to  write  with  water  and  soot.     I  there- 


106  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK. 

fore  think  we  ought  to  buy  one  of  those  large  ink- 
stands with  two  bottles.'* 

"  We  shall,"  I  replied,  with  the  rapture  of  youth, 
"  and  mine  will  be  the  pleasant  task  of  seeing  that 
the  bottles  are  kept  full." 

"  Dearest ! "  he  said,  fondly,  for  this  was  the  sort 
of  remark  that  touched  him  most. 

"  Every  evening,"  I  continued,  encouraged  by  his 
caressing  tones,  "  you  will  find  your  manuscripts 
lying  on  the  table  waiting  for  you,  and  a  pen  with  a 
new  nib  in  it." 

"  What  a  wife  you  will  make ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  But  you  mustn't  write  too  much,"  I  said.  "  You 
must  have  fixed  hours,  and  at  a  certain  time,  say  at 
ten  o'clock,  I  shall  insist  on  your  ceasing  to  write 
for  the  night." 

"  That  seems  a  wise  arrangement.  But  some- 
times I  shall  be  too  entranced  in  the  work,  I  fancy, 
to  leave  it  without  an  effort." 

"Ah,"  I  said,  "I  shall  come  behind  you,  and 
snatch  the  pen  from  your  hand !  " 

"  Every  Saturday  night,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  read  to 
you  what  I  have  written  during  the  week." 

No  wonder  I  loved  him. 

We  were  married  on  a  September  day,  and  the 
honeymoon  passed  delightfully  in  talk  about  the 
book.  Nothing  proved  to  me  the  depth  of  George's 
affection  so  much  as  his  not  beginning  the  great 
work  before  the  honeymoon  was  over.     So  I  often 


MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK.  107 

told  him,  and  he  smiled  fondly  in  reply.  The  more, 
indeed,  I  praised  him  the  better  pleased  he  seemed 
to  be.     The  name  for  this  is  sympathy. 

Conceive  us  at  home  in  our  dear  little  house  in 
Clapham. 

"  Will  you  begin  the  book  at  once  I"  I  asked 
George  the  day  after  we  arrived. 

"I  have  been  thinking  that  over,"  he  said.  "I 
needn't  tell  you  that  there  is  nothing  I  should  like 
so  much,  but,  on  the  whole,  it  might  be  better  to  wait 
a  week." 

"  Don't  make  the  sacrifice  for  my  sake,"  I  said, 
anxiously. 

"  Of  course  it  is  for  your  sake,"  he  replied. 

"  But  it  is  such  a  pity  to  waste  any  more  time,"  I 
said. 

"  There  is  no  such  hurry,"  he  answered,  rather 
testily. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  What  I  mean,"  he  said,  "  is  that  I  can  be  think- 
ing the  arrangement  of  the  book  over." 

We  have,  of  course,  a  good  many  callers  at  this 
time,  and  I  told  most  of  them  about  the  book.  For 
reasons  to  be  seen  by  and  by  I  regret  this  now. 

When  the  week  had  become  a  fortnight,  I  insisted 
on  leaving  George  alone  in  the  study  after  dinner. 
He  looked  rather  gloomy,  but  I  filled  the  ink-bot- 
tles, and  put  the  paper  on  the  desk,  and  handed  him 
his  new  pen.     He  took  it,  but  did  not  say  thank  you. 


108  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK. 

An  hour  afterward  I  took  him  a  cup  of  tea.  He 
was  still  sitting  by  the  fire,  but  the  pen  had  fallen 
from  his  hands. 

"  You  are  not  sleeping,  George  ?  *  I  asked. 

"  Sleeping  !  "  he  cried,  as  indignantly  as  if  I  had 
charged  him  with  crime.     "  No,  I'm  thinking.'' 

"  You  haven't  written  any  yet !  " 

"  I  was  just  going  to  begin  when  you  came  in. 
I'll  begin  as  soon  as  I've  drunk  this  tea." 

"  Then  I'll  leave  you  to  your  work,  dear." 

I  returned  to  the  study  at  nine  o'clock.  He  was 
still  in  the  same  attitude. 

"  I  wish  you  would  bring  me  a  cup  of  tea,"  he 
said. 

"I  brought  you  one  hours  ago." 

"  Eh  !    Why  didn't  you  tell  me  f " 

"  Oh,  George !  I  talked  with  you  about  it.  Why, 
here  it  is  on  the  table,  untouched." 

"  I  declare  you  never  mentioned  it  to  me.  I  must 
have  been  thinking  so  deeply  that  I  never  noticed 
you.     You  should  have  spoken  to  me." 

"  But  I  did  speak,  and  you  answered." 

"  My  dear,  I  assure  you  I  did  nothing  of  the  sort. 
This  is  very  vexing,  for  it  has  spoiled  my  evening's 
work." 

The  next  evening  George  said  that  he  did  not  feel 
in  the  mood  for  writing,  and  I  suppose  I  looked  dis- 
appointed, for  he  flared  up. 

"  I  can't  be  eternally  writing,"  he  growled. 


MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK.  109 

"  But  you  haven't  done  anything-  at  all  yet." 

"That  is  a  rather  ungenerous  way  of  express- 
ing it." 

"  But  you  spoke  as  if  the  work  would  be  a  pleas- 
ure." 

"  Have  I  said  that  it  is  not  a  pleasure  ?  If  you 
knew  anything  of  literary  history,  you  would  be 
aware  that  there  are  occasions  when  the  most  in- 
dustrious writers  cannot  pen  a  line." 

"They  must  make  a  beginning-  some  time, 
though ! " 

"  Well,  I  shall  make  a  beginning  to-morrow." 

Next  evening  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go  into 
the  study. 

"  I'll  hang  the  bedroom  pictures,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no,  you  must  get  begone  to  your  book." 

"  You  are  in  a  desperate  hurry  to  see  me  at  that 
book." 

"  You  spoke  as  if  you  were  so  anxious  to  begin  it." 

"  So  I  am.     Did  I  say  I  wasn't  ?  " 

He  marched  off  to  the  study,  banging  the  drawing- 
room  door.  An  hour  or  so  afterward  I  took  him 
his  tea.  He  had  left  his  study  door  open  so  that  I 
could  see  him  on  the  couch  before  I  entered  the 
room.  When  he  heard  the  rattle  of  the  tea-things 
he  jumped  up  and  strode  to  the  study  table,  where, 
when  I  entered,  he  pretended  to  be  busy  writing. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on,  dear  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a 
sinking  at  the  heart. 


110  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK. 

"  Excellently,  my  love,  excellently." 

I  looked  at  him  so  reproachfully  that  he  blushed. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  when  he  had  drunk  the  tea, 
"  that  I  have  done  enough  for  one  night.  I  mustn't 
overdo  it." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  hear  what  you  have  written  ?  " 

He  blushed  again. 

"Wait  till  Saturday,"  he  said. 

"  Then  let  me  put  your  papers  away,"  I  said,  for  I 
was  anxious  to  see  whether  he  had  written  anything 
at  all. 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  it,"  he  replied,  covering  the 
paper  with  his  elbows. 

Next  morning  I  counted  the  clean  sheets  of  paper. 
They  were  just  as  I  had  put  them  on  the  table.  So 
it  went  on  for  a  fortnight  or  more,  with  this  differ- 
ence. He  either  suspected  that  I  counted  the 
sheets,  or  thought  that  I  might  take  it  into  my  head 
to  do  so.  To  allay  my  suspicions,  therefore,  he  put 
away  what  he  called  his  manuscript  in  a  drawer, 
which  he  took  care  to  lock.  I  discovered  that  one 
of  my  own  keys  opened  this  drawer,  and  one  day  I 
examined  the  manuscripts.  They  consisted  of 
twenty-four  pages  of  paper,  without  a  word  written 
on  them.  Every  evening  he  added  two  more  clean 
pages  to  the  contents  of  the  drawer.  This  discovery 
made  me  so  scornful  that  I  taxed  him  with  the  de- 
ceit. At  first  he  tried  to  brazen  it  out,  but  I  was 
merciless,  and  then  he  said : 


MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK.  Ill 

"  The  fact  is  that  I  can't  write  by  gas-light.  I  fear 
I  shall  have  to  defer  beginning  the  work  until 
spring." 

"  But  you  used  to  say  that  the  winter  was  the  best 
season  for  writing." 

"  I  thought  so  at  the  time,  but  I  find  I  was  wrong. 
It  will  be  a  great  blow  to  me  to  give  up  the  work  for 
the  present,  but  there  is  no  help  for  it." 

When  spring  came  I  reminded  him  that  now  was 
his  opportunity  to  begin  the  book. 

"  You  are  eternally  talking  about  that  book/'  he 
snarled. 

"  I  haven't  mentioned  it  for  a  month." 

"  Well,  you  are  always  looking  at  me  as  if  I  should 
be  at  it." 

"  Because  you  used  to  speak  so  enthusiastically 
about  it." 

"  I  am  as  enthusiastic  as  ever,  but  I  can't  be  for- 
ever writing  at  the  book." 

"  We  have  now  been  married  seven  months,  and 
you  haven't  written  a  line  yet." 

He  banged  the  doors  again,  and  a  week  afterward 
he  said  that  spring  was  a  bad  time  for  writing  a 
book. 

"  One  likes  to  be  out-of-doors,"  he  said,  "  in  spring, 
watching  the  trees  become  green  again.  Wait  till 
July,  when  one  is  glad  to  be  indoors.  Then  111  give 
four  hours  to  the  work  every  evening." 

Summer  came,  and  then  he  said : 


112  MY  HUSBAND'S  BOOK. 

"  It  is  too  hot  to  write  books.  Get  me  another 
bottle  of  iced  soda-water.  I'll  tackle  the  book  in 
the  autumn." 

We  have  now  been  married  more  than  five  years, 
but  the  book  is  not  begun  yet.  As  a  rule,  we  now 
shun  the  subject,  but  there  are  times  when  he  still 
talks  hopefully  of  beginning.  I  wonder  if  there  are 
any  other  husbands  like  mine. 


Who  is  sometimes  to  be  found  in  his  arm  chair,  by  the  fire,  toyiug 
with  a  lady's  shoe. 


A  LADY'S  SHOE. 


Aftek  it  is  too  dark  to  read,  save  to  those  who 
will  travel  to  their  windows  in  search  of  light,  a  man 
I  know  is  sometimes  to  be  found  in  his  arm-chair,  by 
the  fire,  toying  with  a  lady's  shoe.  He  is  a  bachelor 
— whimsical  you  will  say — and  how  that  frayed  shoe 
became  his  I  know  not;  for  often  though  he  has 
told  me,  the  tale  is  never  twice  the  same.  When 
such  is  his  odd  mood,  he  will  weave  me  strange 
histories  of  the  shoe,  and  if  I  would  be  sad  they  are 
sportive,  and  when  one  makes  me  merry  he  will  give 
it  a  tragic  ending,  for  such  is  the  nature  of  the  man. 
Sometimes  he  is  not  consistent,  which,  he  quaintly 
explains,  is  because  he  has  only  one  of  the  shoes  ; 
and  he  will  argue  that  so-called  inanimate  objects 
accustomed  to  the  married  life,  such  as  shoes  and 
gloves  and  spectacles,  mourn  the  loss  of  their  mate 
even  as  Christians  do,  which  he  proves,  should  I 
smile,  by  asking  whether,  though  previously  hard 
workers,  they  are  ever,  if  separated,  of  much  more 
use  in  the  world.  Nor  is  that  the  only  hard  ques- 
tion he  asks  me ;  for  when  I  tell  him  that  all  his 
8 


114  A  LADY'S-  SHOE. 

stories  of  the  shoe  cannot  be  true,  he  demands  of 
me  which  of  them  is  necessarily  false,  and  then  I 
have  no  answer.  Perhaps  you,  too,  will  be  dumb 
to  that  question  after  you  have  listened  to  me,  if 
such  be  your  pleasure,  while  I  repeat  a  little  of  what 
he  tells  me  in  the  twilight,  as  we  sit  by  the  fire  look- 
ing at  the  little  bronze  shoe. 

n. 

A  hundred  and  one  years,  and  six  months  ago, 
says  my  friend,  who  is  scrupulously  exact  about 
dates  where  they  are  of  no  consequence,  that  shoe 
and  its  partner  got  their  first  glimpse  of  the  world. 
They  sat  all  day  in  a  shoemaker's  window  in  the 
Strand,  looking  out  upon  the  great  fair  which  hu- 
man beings  provide  for  the  entertainment  of  the  ar- 
ticles that  have  the  luck  to  get  a  seat  in  shopkeep- 
ers' windows,  instead  of  being  hung  up  inside  on 
strings,  or  hidden  away  in  boxes.  They  were  a  very 
dainty  pair,  made  for  the  feet  of  some  Cinderella 
with  a  godmother,  and  many  ladies  stopped  to  look 
at  them  who  passed  St.  Paul's  without  giving  it  a 
glance.  But  there  was  a  little  dressmaker  who 
loved  these  shoes  as  no  other  loved  them,  and  she 
stood  admiring  them  so  often  that  they  got  to  know 
her  and  wondered  why  she  did  not  come  in  and  buy. 
You  see  they  had  as  yet  no  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  thought  that  a  trumpery    dressmaker   ought 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  115 

to  have  them,  just  because  she  had  such  pretty  little 
feet.  They  did  not  understand  that  beautiful  shoes 
are  not  for  feet  that  fit  them,  but  for  purses  that 
can  buy  them. 

She  was  not  so  very  little,  this  dressmaker  who 
hungered  for  the  tiny  bronze  shoes  j  but  she  was 
only  a  girl,  and  she  had  to  sew  for  her  life  all  day 
and  often  all  night,  and  that,  my  friend  says,  is  why 
he  calls  her  the  little  dressmaker.  I  suppose  he 
means  that  she  was  so  small  compared  to  the  big 
foes  a  poor  girl  has  to  fight  in  London.  But  though 
she  was  poor,  she  was  not  unhappy.  She  not  only 
made  pretty  dresses  out  of  rich  material  for  fine 
ladies,  such  as  the  shoes  were  meant  for,  but  pretty, 
cheap  frocks  for  herself,  in  which  she  was  delightful 
to  look  at.  A  really  pretty  girl  always  looks  best  in 
something  at  twopence-halfpenny  the  yard,  and 
really  plain  ones  look  their  worst  in  silk  and  velvet. 
These,  be  it  noted,  are  my  friend's  views.  The  little 
dressmaker  never  quite  rose  to  them.  She  often 
smiled  with  satisfaction  when  she  saw  herself  in  a 
mirror;  but  as  often  she  sighed  over  her  sewing, 
wishing  she  could  see  herself  in  the  fine  brocades 
that  were  meant  for  my  Lady  Mary.  As  it  is  the  du- 
ty of  all  women  to  look  as  nice  as  possible,  the  little 
dressmaker  cannot  be  blamed  for  wishing  some- 
times that  she  had  five  thousand  a  year.  Had  she 
had  that  sum,  her  first  purchase  would  have  been 
the  shoes.     She  often  thought  of  them  at  nights, 


116  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

and  looked  at  her  pretty  feet  and  counted  her 
money,  and  then  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

The  little  dressmaker  had  only  one  relative  in  the 
whole  wide  world,  and  he  was  a  boy  of  twelve,  six 
or  eight  years  younger  than  herself.  He  was  her 
brother,  and  they  lived  together  in  a  shabby  room 
that  looked  bright,  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
these  two  loved  each  other.  Will  ran  errands  for 
anyone  who  would  employ  him,  and  he  had  such  an 
appetite  that  he  often  felt  compelled  to  apologize 
for  it.  The  little  dressmaker  could  have  bought  the 
shoes  to  which  she  had  given  her  heart,  had  she  not 
known  that  the  consuming  desire  of  Will  was  to 
possess  a  certain  magnificent  knife. 

"  How  absurd  of  Will,"  the  little  dressmaker  often 
said  to  herself,  "  to  want  that  ugly  knife.  What  can 
he  do  with  it,  except  cut  his  fingers  ! " 

At  these  times  she  could  not  help  comparing  boys 
to  girls,  and  thinking  that  the  desires  of  her  own 
sex  were  much  more  reasonable,  for  what  could  be 
more  natural  and  proper  than  to  pine  for  the  love- 
liest pair  of  bronze  shoes  ? 

Will  knew  why  his  sister  often  gazed  at  these 
shoes,  and  he  would  smile  at  her  infatuation. 

"  How  foolish  girls  are ! "  was  his  comment  to 
himself.  "  No  sensible  person  could  see  that  knife 
without  wishing  to  own  it ;  but  what  does  it  matter 
whether  one  wears  pretty  shoes  or  ugly  shoes,  or 
even  no  shoes  at  all  ?  " 


■jmr> 


Next  day,  notwithstanding,  she  was  back  at  the  window. 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  117 

Nevertheless,  these  two  loved  each  other,  and 
Will  would  have  liked  his  sister  to  get  the  shoes,  if 
only  he  could  get  the  knife  as  well.  The  little  dress- 
maker loved  Will  even  more  than  that,  and  was  de- 
termined that  he  should  have  the  knife,  though  she 
had  to  give  up  the  shoes. 

Can  you  see  her  at  the  shoemaker's  window,  look- 
ing at  the  shoes,  and  then  at  her  own  feet,  until  she 
felt  certain  that  all  the  Strand  was  laughing  at  her  ? 
Once  she  went  into  the  shop  and  asked  the  price  of 
the  shoes.  She  came  out  scared.  Next  day,  not- 
withstanding, she  was  back  at  the  window,  with  the 
money  in  her  possession,  and  it  almost  compelled 
her  to  go  in  and  buy.  She  had  to  run  away.  After 
that  she  left  the  money  at  home,  lest  it  should  some 
day  drag  her  into  the  shop. 

She  tried  to  avoid  the  Strand  altogether,  but  still 
her  feet  took  her  there  against  her  will,  for  you  can- 
not conceive  how  anxious  they  were  to  step  into 
those  little  bronze  shoes. 

The  little  dressmaker,  who  was  the  most  unselfish 
of  women,  despised  herself  for  her  vanity,  and 
thought  to  be  happy  again  by  buying  the  knife 
without  delay.  Then  the  shoes  would  be  beyond 
her  reach  as  completely  as  if  some  great  lady  had 
bought  them. 

"  Here  is  the  money  for  the  knife,  Will,"  she  said, 
bravely,  one  day,  and  Will  grasped  the  money,  which 
was  in  many  pieces,  all  earned  with  toil. 


118  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

"  But  the  shoes  ?  "  Will  said,  repressing  his  desire 
to  rush  out  for  the  knife. 

"  I  don't  care  about  them,"  his  sister  said,  turning 
her  head  away. 

"  It  is  not,"  Will  said,  uncomfortably,  "  as  if  you 
had  no  shoes.  Those  are  nice  ones  you  are  wearing 
now." 

They  were  not  really  nice  ones.  It  was  quite  a 
shame  that  such  pretty  feet  should  be  libelled  by 
them.  But  these. were  matters  Will  did  not  under- 
stand. 

"All  one  wants  of  shoes,"  he  said,  "is  that  they 
should  have  no  holes  in  them." 

u  That  is  all,"  answered  the  little  dressmaker,  with 
a  courageous  smile,  and  she  spoke  of  the  knife  with 
such  interest  that  Will  set  off  to  buy  it,  convinced 
that  she  no  longer  cared  about  the  shoes.  Forget- 
ting something,  however,  he  turned  back  for  it,  and 
behold,  he  found  the  little  dressmaker  in  tears.  You 
must  not  blame  her.  It  was  quite  a  big  sacrifice 
she  had  made,  and  therefore,  though  she  was  cry- 
ing, she  was  not  very  unhappy.  Unselfishness  is 
the  best  cure  for  trouble.  Will,  of  course,  did  not 
realize  this.  He  suddenly  remembered  that,  though 
they  were  so  poor,  he  seemed  to  get  everything  he 
wanted  very  much,  while  she  seemed  to  get  nothing. 
He  was  stricken  with  remorse,  and  said  craftily 
that  he  wanted  her  to  come  with  him  to  buy  the 
knife.    Well,  she  went  with  him,  and  presently  she 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  119 

discovered  that  it  was  not  the  knife  he  meant  to 
buy. 

"  Oh,  Will,"  she  whispered,  trembling,  "  I  won't 
have  the  shoes.     I  want  you  to  get  the  knife." 

"  Pooh,"  said  Will,  grandly,  "  I  don't  care  to  have 
the  knife.     What  use  do  I  have  for  it  ?  " 

"You  will  make  me  wretched,  Will,"  the  little 
dressmaker  said,  "  if  you  buy  the  shoes.  These  I 
have  are  quite  nice  ones." 

"  You  are  to  have  the  shoes,"  replied  Will,  firmly. 
"  No  one  could  look  so  pretty  in  them  as  you  will 
do." 

"  Oh,  Will,  have  you  noticed  \  "  faltered  the  little 
dressmaker,  meaning  had  Will  noticed  that  her  feet 
really  were  made  for  lovely  shoes. 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  answered  Will,  not  at  all 
understanding  what  she  was  referring  to. 

"But  I  can't  spend  so  much  money  on  myself," 
she  said. 

"  It  is  my  money  now,"  said  Will,  triumphantly, 
"  and  I  am  to  give  you  the  shoes  as  a  present." 

Feeling  like  a  man,  he  requested  her  to  take  his 
arm,  and  so  they  advanced  along  the  Strand,  making 
quite  a  gallant  show  for  such  wayfarers  as  could 
read  faces.  Alas!  they  reached  the  shop  too  late. 
The  shoes  were  gone.  An  hour  earlier  they  had 
been  bought  by  an  heiress,  for  whom  they  were  too 
small.  The  shopkeeper  had  pointed  this  out  to  her 
courteously,  but  she,  too,  had  fallen  in  love  with  the 


120  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

pretty  shoes,  and  her  only  answer  to  him  was,  "  I 
buy  them :  I  undertake  to  get  into  them."  Now  we 
must  leave  the  sad  little  dressmaker  and  follow  the 
fortunes  of  the  shoes. 

III. 

I  interrupted  my  friend  at  this  point,  saying,  "  It 
is  the  little  dressmaker  I  am  interested  in ;  not  the 
shoes.     Tell  me  more  of  her." 

"  She  vanished  out  of  my  knowledge  at  that  point 
in  her  history,"  he  answered,  "  I  don't  know  what 
became  of  her." 

"  A  story-teller,"  I  complained,  "  has  no  right  to 
close  his  tale  so  abruptly.  It  is  his  duty  to  leave 
nothing  to  the  public's  imagination." 

"  Mine,"  he  said,  "  is  not  a  story,  it  is  only  some- 
thing that  happened,  and  I  warned  you  that  I  did 
not  know  the  end.  In  real  life  you  never  get  the 
end  of  a  story,  but  you  can  guess  it  if  you  will." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "I  guess  that  the  little  gover- 
ness  " 

"  Had  more  severe  disappointments  in  after  life 
than  the  loss  of  a  pair  of  shoes,"  he  said. 

"  But  had  a  happy  future,"  I  broke  in,  almost  en- 
treating him  to  say  the  words.  "  When  her  brother 
became  a  man  he  gave  her  a  pretty  house  in  the 
suburbs  to  be  mistress  of,  and  she  was  as  happy 
as ." 

"  As  Kuth  Pinch,"  he  suggested ;  "  no,  I  think  Will 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  121 

married,  and  left  the  little  dressmaker  alone  in  the 
shabby  room." 

"  Until  she  married,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Or  until,"  said  my  friend,  .very  sadly,  "  she  was 
damned  to  all  eternity  that  a  gentleman  might  have 
his  pleasure." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  I  implored. 

"The  little  dressmaker  is  dead,"  he  answered, 
"  and  the  worms  have  eaten  her  long  ago,  so  it  does 
not  matter  much."  Then  he  looked  at  me  sharply: 
"  If  I  cannot  give  the  story  an  end,"  he  said,  "  I  can 
at  least  give  it  a  moral.  When  I  was  in  your  house 
yesterday  I  found  a  pale  little  governess  teaching 
your  children,  and  I  thought  (forgive  me)  that  you 
were  somewhat  brusque  to  her.  She  was  the  little 
dressmaker  over  again.  Ah,  sir,  that  is  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  that  the  stories  in  real  life  have  no  end- 
ing !  The  brave  little  dressmaker  is  still  in  London ; 
you  brush  against  her  in  every  street,  you  meet  her 
in  scores  of  houses.  Eemember  that  little  bit  of 
her  history,  and  you  will  help  to  make  her  next  scene 
brighter.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  of  her  who 
bought  the  shoes  and  took  them  to  Gretna  Green, 
and  of  how  they  entirely  altered  her  future  because 
they  were  a  size  too  small.  This  time  the  story  has 
an  ending,  or  what  passes  for  such  in  a  world  of 
make-believe.  It  is  about  a  grandfather  of  mine, 
too,  whose  marriage,  as  you  shall  hear,  was  entirely 
arranged  by  this  shoe." 


122  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 


TV. 


Miss  May  Gkegoky,  the  heiress  into  whose  pos- 
session the  shoes  passed,  was  a  lovely  creature  on  a 
somewhat  large  scale,  and  having  only  lately  left 
school,  she  was  desperately  anxious  to  be  married. 
So  anxious  was  she,  that  matrimony  was  the  first 
consideration,  and  the  man  only  the  second.  She 
had  two  lovers,  whom  she  called  Jack  and  Tom,  and 
she  was  so  fond  of  both  that  she  would  have  married 
either.  Her  papa,  who  knew  her  pretty  well,  said 
she  was  a  sentimental  goose,  and  he  was  so  feared 
by  both  Jack  and  Tom,  that  when  they  heard  his 
voice  in  the  stilly  night  asking  who  that  was  play- 
ing the  guitar  beneath  his  daughter's  window,  they 
leaped  the  orchard  wall  and  ran. 

"  You  can't  marry  both,"  Mr.  Gregory  explained 
to  Miss  May  ;  "  and  as  they  would  only  make  a  man 
between  them,  it  is  obvious  that  you  marry  neither. 
No  tears,  please,  and  let  me  hear  less  nonsense  about 
love  ;  whoever  heard  of  a  girl's  loving  two  men  at 
once !  " 

Miss  May  thought  her  papa  very  unfeeling,  and 
pointed  out  that,  of  course  she  only  loved  one  of 
them.  Her  tragedy  was  that  she  could  not  decide 
which  one. 

My  own  idea  is  that  they  were  so  very  much  alike 
that  a  lady  could  not  be  indifferent  to  the  one  and 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  123 

love  the  other.  But  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  often 
wonder  how  young  ladies  can  choose  a  young  man 
out  of  so  many  young  men  of  the  same  pattern  and 
hold  him  higher  than  the  rest.  Financially  Jack 
and  Tom  were  easily  distinguished,  however.  Jack 
had  ready  money  but  no  prospects  ;  Tom  had  pros- 
pects (he  said)  but  no  ready  money.  You  may  be 
sure  that  Miss  May  considered  this  no  difference  at 
all.  She  had  sufficient  money  and  prospects  for 
both  herself  and  her  husband,  whichever  one  he 
should  prove  to  be. 

Though  it  was  in  London  that  Miss  May  bought 
the  shoes,  it  was  in  a  provincial  town  that  she  first 
tried  to  get  into  them,  the  town  where  she  and  her 
severe  papa  lived.  She  was  going  to  the  theatre 
that  night,  and  to  Gretna  Green  afterward,  if  the 
fates  proved  friendly.  It  was  her  father  who  was  to 
take  her  to  the  theatre,  and  Jack  who  was  to  take 
her  to  Gretna  Green.  The  arrangements  had  been 
made  cleverly,  as  you  will  see. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  did  the  carriage  wait  at 
the  door  before  Miss  May  was  ready  to  step  into  it. 
When  she  at  last  joined  her  father,  who  was  fuming, 
for  he  detested  being  late  for  the  play,  her  face  was 
red.  I  wish  I  could  say  that  this  was  because  she 
was  blushing  or  had  been  crying  over  the  impropri- 
ety of  the  contemplated  runaway  marriage.  But  it 
was  not.  Miss  May  was  merely  red  in  the  face  be- 
cause her  fight  with  the  shoes  had  been  protracted. 


124  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

She  had  gained  a  momentary  triumph,  however,  for, 
in  her  own  words,  she  had  "  got  into  them."  True 
they  pinched  and  made  her  stumble  in  her  walk,  but 
she  had  only  to  walk  a  few  yards  to  the  carriage  and 
another  few  yards  from  the  playhouse  door  to  a 
box. 

I  have  forgotten  what  the  play  was ;  it  was,  proba- 
bly, one  of  the  dull  comedies  that  are  now  es- 
teemed and  edited  because  they  are  old.  Many 
people  were  crowding  into  the  house,  and  in  the 
vestibule  stood  Jack,  who  made  a  sign  to  his  lady 
that  all  was  well.  Then  he  disappeared  without  be- 
ing seen  by  the  father  he  was  hoodwinking.  Tom 
was  less  fortunate.  That  is  to  say,  the  father  did 
see  him.  He  was  also  more  fortunate,  however,  for 
he  had  a  few  moments'  talk  with  Miss  May.  That 
lady  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  have  let  Tom  know  that 
she  was  coming  to  the  play  to-night.  She  was 
really  Jack's  now,  or  about  to  be,  if  the  plot  did  not 
miscarry.  But  was  it  not  natural  that  she  should 
feel  sorry  for  Tom !  That  day  she  had  sent  him 
back  his  letters  (he  used  to  slip  them  into  her  hands, 
and  she  kept  them  in  a  box  beside  Jack's  letters), 
with  an  intimation  that  all  was  now  over  between 
them.  She  had  also  added  that  she  was  going  to 
the  play  that  night,  and  I  suppose  her  reason  for 
this  injudicious  act  was  that  she  looked  forward  to  a 
delightfully  sad  parting  with  him.  But  Miss  May 
had  not  quite  understood  Tom.    In  the  crush  at  the 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  125 

theatre  she  held  out  her  hand  (the  one  further  from 
her  papa)  that  Tom  might  squeeze  it  surreptitiously. 
Thus  did  she  hope  to  break  the  blow.  But  frantic 
Tom  would  have  none  of  her  hand.  He  stalked  after 
her  into  the  box,  and  in  the  presence  of  her  father 
demanded  an  explanation.  Miss  May,  who  was  al- 
ready beginning  to  wish  that  she  had  never  seen 
those  lovely  little  bronze  shoes — they  were  hurting 
her  so  much — wept  at  Tom's  grief  and  admired  him 
for  his  vehemence.  As  for  the  father,  he  was  first 
amazed,  secondly  delighted,  and  thirdly  afraid.  It 
was  pleasant  to  him  to  hear  that  his  daughter  was 
determined  to  be  done  with  the  youth,  but  disquiet- 
ing to  observe  that  the  whole  house  was  listening 
to  Tom's  declamation.  Tom  promising  to  lower  his 
voice,  papa  consented  to  leave  the  box  for  five  min- 
utes that  the  farewells  might  take  place  in  privacy. 

In  that  five  minutes  the  second  last  act  of  a 
tragedy  was  [played  in  the  back  of  the  box.  Tom 
announced  that  his  prospects  were  now  death  by  his 
own  pistol.  Miss  May,  in  terror,  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders ;  and  then,  remembering  Jack,  with- 
drew them.  She  had  promised  Jack  not  to  say  a 
word  of  the  conspiracy  to  Tom,  but  now  it  all  came 
out.  At  half-past  nine  a  written  note  was  to  be 
handed  in  to  Miss  May,  purporting  to  come  from 
an  aunt  of  hers  who  was  in  a  box  beneath.  The 
note  was  to  ask  her  and  her  papa  to  join  the  aunt. 
Papa  loathed  the  aunt,  and  was  therefore  certain  to 


126  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

refuse;  but  he  would  let  Miss  May  go.  In  the 
lobby  she  was  to  be  joined  by  Jack,  whisked 
into  a  carriage  that  was  already  waiting  near  the 
theatre  door,  and  borne  off  in  the  direction  of 
Gretna  Green.  There  was  quite  a  chance  of  the 
runaways  being  twenty  miles  off  before  the  chase 
began. 

"So  farewell,  Tom,  dear  Tom,"  said  Miss  May. 
But  dear  Tom,  forgetting  his  promise  to  papa,  be- 
gan to  stamp,  calling  her  the  most  horrid  names, 
and  thus  delighting  her. 

"  You  know  how  I  could  love  you,"  she  said,  pick- 
ing her  tenses  carefully.  "But  am  I  to  blame  if  you 
are  so  poor  1 " 

"  You  could  wait  for  me.     My  prospects " 

"  I  can't  wait,  Tom ;  good-by.  Kiss  me,  Tom,  for 
the  last  time." 

"  I  won't.  You  are  a  heartless  coquette.  May,  if 
that  carriage  had  been  mine,  would  you  have  come 
with  me  ? " 

"I— I  don't  know." 

Men  should  not  distress  women  with  such  diffi- 
cult questions. 

"  Kiss  me,  Tom,  for  the  last  time." 

*  I  won't." 

Then,  like  a  sensible  man,  Tom  changed  his  mind, 
and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"It  is  not  for  the  last  time,"  he  said,  fiercely. 
"  May,  you  love  me,  and  me  alone,  and  Jack  shall 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  127 

not  have  you ;  he  shall  not.     I  have  an  idea ;  quick, 
tell  me  how  I  shall  know  Jack's  carriage  ?  " 

Miss  May,  wondering,  had  just  began  to  answer 
him,  when  papa  reappeared.  Tom  departed,  but 
not  with  the  look  of  a  hopeless  man  on  his  face.  As 
for  the  young  lady,  having  treated  dear  Tom  so 
kindly,  she  naturally  began  to  think  lovingly  of  dear 
Jack. 


The  ruse  with  the  letter  succeeded.  Miss  May 
was  trembling  a  little  when  she  left  the  box.  Had 
her  papa  flung  her  a  kind  word  just  then  she  might 
have  postponed  the  elopement ;  but  he  asked  her 
grumpily  why  she  was  looking  at  him  so  sentiment- 
ally, and,  of  course,  after  that  she  hesitated  no 
longer.  He  little  thought  as  the  door  closed  on  her 
that  the  next  time  they  met  she  would  be  a  married 
woman. 

Miss  May  always  maintained  afterward  that  from 
the  moment  when  she  left  her  father's  box  until  she 
realized  that  she  was  in  a  carriage  beside  Jack,  all 
was  a  blank  to  her.  The  theatre  attendant,  however, 
who  saw  the  carriage  drive  off,  and  described  the 
scene  subsequently  to  the  infuriated  father,  declared 
that  she  was  less  agitated  than  her  lover. 

"  I  suppose  Jack  carried  me  down  that  dark  street 
to  the  carriage,"  was  Miss  May's  surmise. 

"  The  gentleman  was  a  little  excited-like,  but  the 


128  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

lady  she  were  wonderful  cool,"  was  the  attendant's 
declaration.     His  story  ended  thus  : 

"They  had  started,  when  the  lady  she  gave  a 
scream,  and  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  gentle- 
man he  jumped  out  and  looked  for  something  in  the 
street.  He  got  it,  too,  and  then  he  jumps  in  beside 
her  again,  and  off  they  go  at  a  spanking  rate.  I 
don't  know  what  it  was ;  something  she  had  dropped, 
most  likely." 

To  his  dying  day  this  man  was  denied  the  small 
pleasure  of  knowing  what  Jack  jumped  out  of  the 
carriage  to  pick  up.  It  was  one  of  the  shoes.  Miss 
May's  feet  had  been  protesting  so  vigorously  in  the 
theatre  against  further  confinement  in  their  narrow 
prison  house  that  with  one  foot  she  had  pressed  the 
shoe  half  off  the  other.  In  the  street  the  shoe  fell 
off  and  Jack  had  to  find  it,  for  although  in  Scotland 
one  may  marry  in  a  hurry,  one's  feet  must  be  prop- 
erly shod.  So  Miss  May  thought  then,  but  she  was 
presently  to  discover  that  a  pair  of  shoes  are  a  con- 
venient possession  rather  than  indispensable. 

Through  the  greater  part  of  the  night  the  car- 
riage rolled  northward,  but  at  last  an  inn  (now,  I 
believe,  a  private  house)  was  reached,  where  they 
had  to  wait  three  hours  for  fresh  horses.  Miss  May 
had  a  bedroom,  but  did  not  sleep  a  wink  (she  said), 
while  the  nervous  Jack  paced  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  inn,  listening  for  horses  in  pursuit,  and  think- 
ing he  heard  them  every  five  minutes. 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  129 

If  a  man  can  be  too  gentlemanly,  that  man  seems 
to  have  been  Jack  throughout  this  escapade.  Until 
he  could  claim  her  as  his  wife,  he  would  not  take 
even  what  she  called  formal  liberties.  He  sat  on 
the  seat  opposite  her.  He  paid  her  no  compli- 
ments ;  he  addressed  her  as  Miss  Gregory,  which 
had  not  been  his  custom.  Of  course,  she  admired 
this  delicacy,  but  still 

The  journey  was  resumed  with  early  light,  and 
now,  as  they  stepped  once  more  into  their  carriage, 
both  of  the  runaways  looked  hard  at  one  of  the 
postilions. 

"  Surely,  you  are  not  the  man  I  engaged  yester- 
day ?  "  Jack  said  to  him. 

"  No,  my  lord/'  answered  the  fellow,  composedly ; 
"he  were  took  ill,  and  offered  me  his  place.  No 
offence  intended,  my  lord.  I  have  been  on  this  here 
kind  of  job  before." 

"  You  have  been  to  Gretna  Green  before  ?  " 

"  Kayther." 

"  You  will  do  as  well  as  another.    Drive  on." 

Miss    May  said    nothing    to    the  man,   but  she 

thought  a  good  deal  about  him.     Despite  his  dark 

hair  and  sallow  complexion,  despite   his  boorish 

manners,  she  thought  him  very  like  Tom.     It  was 

Tom  in  disguise.     He  had  bribed  the  real  postilion, 

and  here  he  was  on  his  way  to  Scotland  with  the 

woman  he  wanted  to  marry,  but  by  no  means  certain 

how  he  was  to  get  her. 
9 


130  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

Within  twenty  miles  of  the  border  there  is  a 
hillock  which  commands  an  extensive  view.  It  is 
close  to  the  old  high  road,  and  many  a  man  bound 
for  Gretna  Green  has  run  up  it  to  see  whether  his 
pursuers  were  in  sight.  Jack  was  one  of  the  num- 
ber. He  was  not  gone  many  minutes,  but  in  the 
meantime  Tom  had  found  an  opportunity  of  reveal- 
ing himself  to  the  lady. 

"  May,"  he  said,  appearing  so  suddenly  by  her 
side  that  she  screamed,  "  don't  you  know  me  ?  I  am 
Tom.  May,  dearest,  you  said  you  would  marry  me 
if  I  could  take  you  to  Scotland.    I  am  doing  it." 

"  Oh,  Tom ! "  wailed  Miss  May,  all  in  a  tremble 
(as  she  said  afterwards),  "I  never  made  any  such 
promise.     I  am  to  marry  Jack." 

"  Never ! "  cried  Tom.     "  May,  darling  May " 

"  Tom,  Tom ! "  said  Miss  May,  reproachfully, 
"  why  did  you  come  to  disturb  my  peace  of  mind, 
when  everything  was  going  on  so  nicely  ?  " 

"  Love  of  my  life  ! "  began  Tom,  then  kissed  her 
hand  and  resumed  his  seat  beside  the  other  pos- 
tilion.   He  had  seen  Jack  running  back. 

"  We  are  pursued,"  Jack  said,  as  he  drew  near, 
panting,  "by  two  men  on  horseback,  and  one  of 
them,  I  am  convinced,  is  your  father." 

The  carriage  rolled  on  more  quickly  now  than 
ever,  and  for  the  next  half-hour  Miss  May  thought 
little  of  which  of  her  lovers  she  should  marry.  Her 
new  fear  was  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  marry  at 


44  Love  of  my  life,"  began  Tom,  then  kissed  her  hand. 


A  LADY'S  SUOE.  131 

all.  Jack  was  as  polite  as  ever.  Certainly  Tom 
had  been  less  delicate.  He  had  called  her  his  dar- 
ling, he  had  kissed  her  hand.  He  should  not  have 
taken  these  liberties,  but  still ■ 

In  vain  were  the  jaded  horses  of  the  runaways 
whipped  up.  The  pursuers  gained  on  the  carriage 
until,  when  the  latter  was  within  half  a  mile  of  the 
border,  they  were  not  four  hundred  yards  behind. 

11  There  is  only  one  chance  for  us,  May,"  said 
poor  Jack,  forgetting  in  his  excitement  that  she  was 
not  May,  but  Miss  Gregory ;  "  we  must  leave  the  car- 
riage at  the  next  turn  of  the  road  which  hides  us 
from  view." 

*  And  be  overtaken  in  a  moment ! "  cried  Miss 
May,  aghast. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Jack.  "  Listen,  dear,  to  what 
I  propose.  At  the  next  turn  I  will  stop  the  car- 
riage, and  you  will  at  once  jump  out  with  me.  I 
will  tell  our  fellows  to  drive  on  as  fast  as  they  can, 
and  you  and  I  will  conceal  ourselves  until  your 
father  and  his  companion  have  galloped  past.  They 
will  pursue  the  carriage.  In  the  meantime  you  and 
I  will  cross  these  fields  to  the  village,  whose  lights 
I  see  plainly,  and  there  the  blacksmith  will  marry 
us." 

"  They  will  overtake  the  carriage  in  a  few  min- 
utes," the  lady  said,  "  and  finding  it  empty,  hurry 
on  to  Gretna  Green.  Why,  we  shall  find  them  wait- 
ing for  us  there."  .  -- 


132  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

"We  shall  not,"  answered  Jack,  triumphantly, 
with  his  head  out  at  the  window.  "  I  see  two  roads 
before  us,  of  which  the  one  evidently  leads  to  Gretna 
Green,  and  the  other  to  the  right.  I  will  tell  our 
fellows  to  take  the  latter ;  that  will  give  us  a  good 
start." 

Jack  stopped  the  carriage  and  assisted  his  lady 
out,  at  the  same  time  shouting  directions  to  the  two 
men.  "  Stop  ! "  he  cried  to  them,  as  they  were  driv- 
ing off.  "  One  of  you  come  with  me  ;  we  may  need 
a  witness."  Tom  jumped  down.  The  carriage  drove 
on.  The  two  men  and  the  woman  hid.  The  horse- 
men, of  whom  Mr.  Gregory  was  purple  with  passion, 
raced  by  them. 

"  And  now  for  Gretna  Green  on  foot ! "  said  Jack, 
giving  Miss  May  his  arm. 

They  hurried  on,  but — the  shoe  !  Miss  May  had 
this  time  no  maid  to  help  her,  and  the  shoe  was  but 
half  on.  She  was  sliding  her  foot  along  the  ground, 
rather  than  lifting  it.  By  and  by,  when  they  were 
not  a  hundred  yards  from  the  old  toll-house,  which 
is  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  border,  Miss  May 
sank  to  the  ground,  crying,  "  I  can  go  no  further ; 
I  have  lost  one  of  my  shoes ! " 

There  was  no  time  to  look  for  the  shoe  in  the  twi- 
light. 

"Assist  her  to  that  cottage,"  said  Jack  to  the  sup- 
posed postilion,  pointing  to  the  toll-house,  "  and  I 
will  hasten  on  to  the  village  and  bring  the  black- 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  133 

smith  back  with  me.  Ask  them  to  hide  her,  if  need 
be.     You  will  be  well  paid." 

So  saying,  Jack  ran  on,  while  Tom  obeyed  his  in- 
junctions to  the  letter.  With  Miss  May's  assistance 
he  explained  the  position  to  the  toll-keeper,  who 
grinned  when  he  heard  that  the  bridegroom  was 
running  to  Gretna  Green  for  the  blacksmith. 

"  You  English,"  he  said,  "  think  that  there  is  but 
one  man  in  broad  Scotland  who  can  make  a  couple 
one  in  a  hurry,  and  you  call  him  the  blacksmith, 
though  }ie  is  no  blacksmith  at  all.  If  your  lover, 
honey,  had  stopped  here,  I  should  have  had  you 
spliced  by  this  time." 

"Is  that  true?"  cried  Tom,  while  Miss  May 
stared. 

"  I  have  married  scores  in  my  time,"  the  old  man 
answered.    "  Why,  I  married  half-a-dozen  this  week." 

"  But  is  it  legal  ?  "  asked  May. 

The  toll -keeper  smiled. 

"  Try  it,  honey,"  he  suggested. 

Then  it  was  Tom's  turn  to  speak. 

"  May,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  conviction,  cc  this  is 
providential.  Old  gentleman,  marry  us  as  quickly 
as  you  can.  Get  your  family  as  witnesses,  if  wit- 
nesses are  necessary." 

The  toll-keeper  looked  at  the  lady. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  "  I  promised  Jack.  Oh,  Tom, 
how  I  wish  there  had  been  only  one  of  you  !  " 

For  half  an  hour  did  Miss  May  refuse  to  listen  to 


134  A  LADY'S  SHOE. 

what  Tom  called  reason.  Then  she  started  up,  for 
she  was  sure  she  heard  the  gallop  of  horses. 

"  Tom !  "  she  cried. 

So  she  and  Tom  were  married.  Jack  and  Mr. 
Gregory  arrived  at  the  toll-house  five  minutes  after- 
ward, but  it  was  all  over  by  that  time. 


VI. 


Thus  my  friend  ended  his  story,  adding  that  his 
grandfather  had  come  out  of  the  affair  victorious. 

"  So  that  your  grandfather  was  Tom  ?  "  I  said. 

"If,"  he  replied,  coolly,  "  you  think  Tom  was  the 
victor." 

"Well,  he  got  her." 

"  And  Jack  did  not.  But  perhaps  Jack  was  the 
luckier  man  of  the  two." 

"  Then  was  Jack  your  grandfather  ?  " 

"  I  won't  say.  I  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  which 
was  victorious,  the  one  who  got  her  or  the  one  who 
lost  her." 

"  It  must  have  been  Tom.  You  told  me  that  your 
grandfather's  marriage  was  entirely  arranged  by  a 
shoe/' 

"  Yes,  I  said  so,  but  both  of  their  marriages  were 
arranged  by  a  shoe,  for  Jack  subsequently  married 
another  lady,  and,  of  course,  it  was  the  shoe  that  led 
to  his  marrying  her  instead  of  Miss  May." 


A  LADY'S  SHOE.  135 

"At  least/'  I  said,  "Tell  me  which  of  the  two 
shoes  this  is." 

"  That  would  be  telling"  all,"  he  replied,  "  for  Tom 
retained  possession  of  the  shoe  in  which  Miss  May 
was  married,  and  Jack  found  the  other  one  next 
morning.  To  tell  you  which  shoe  this  is  would  be 
to  tell  you  which  man  was  my  grandfather.  Can't 
you  guess  ?  I  have  told  you  he  was  the  one  who 
had  reason  to  be  thankful  that  the  lady  became  Mrs. 
Tom.     Now,  which  one  was  that  ? " 

Eeader,  which  do  you  think  % 


WAS  IT  A  WATCH? 

Even  before  my  trouble  with  it,  Farquhar' s  was  no 
ordinary  watch,  dimming-  expressed  the  general 
opinion  when  he  said  it  was  a  watch  that  would 
make  any  man  thoughtful.  Without  going  into  its 
history,  I  may  say  that  Farquhar  got  it  originally 
from  a  deputation  of  another  man's  admirers,  who 
presented  it  to  him  by  mistake.  From  the  first  it 
seems  to  have  required  a  good  deal  of  study. 

Although  he  had  a  pride  in  it  that  would  have 
been  beautiful  had  the  object  been  more  worthy, 
Farquhar  was  not  given  to  ostentatious  boasting 
about  his  watch.  Until  it  became  the  subject  of 
common  talk,  he  never  knew,  I  am  convinced,  that 
it  was  different  from  other  people's  watches.  He 
had  owned  it  for  some  time  before  I  became  cogni- 
zant of  its  remarkable  properties.  One  day  Farquhar 
and  I  took  such  a  long  walk  that  we  had  to  remain 
in  a  village  all  night.  We  had  a  double-bedded 
room.  Some  time  after  midnight  I  was  awakened 
by  strange  noises,  and  thought  at  first  that  Farquhar 
was  groaning  in  his  sleep.  I  shouted  out  to  him  to 
sleep  like  a  Christian  or  leave  the  room.    He  made 


WAS  IT  A   WATCH ?  137 

no  answer,  but  the  noise  stopped,  and  I  fell  over 
again.  In  a  short  time  I  was  again  wide  awake. 
There  was  no  noise,  but  I  was  sure  that  something 
in  the  room  had  wakened  me.  Instead  of  address- 
ing Farquhar  once  more  I  lay  very  still,  and  by 
and  by  the  noises  were  resumed.  They  resembled 
the  distant  creaking  of  chains,  and  came  in  jerks 
with  intervals  of  half  a  minute  between  them.  The 
room  was  in  the  blackness  of  night,  but  I  still  felt 
sure  that  Farquhar  was  the  offender,  and  from  the 
noise  I  thought  I  could  calculate  the  place  where  he 
was  lying.  I  reached  my  arm  down  to  the  floor  and 
at  last  my  groping  fingers  touched  a  slipper.  This 
I  flung,  as  I  believed,  at  Farquhar  as  hard  as  I 
could.  Then  I  listened.  The  slipper  hit  some  hard 
object  and  fell  on  the  floor,  but  Farquhar  did  not 
waken.  The  noise  had  ceased.  As  I  lay  listening  I 
gradually  became  aware  of  another  sound  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room.  Undoubtedly  it  was 
Farquhar  breathing  heavily.  This  made  me  sit  up. 
Evidently  Farquhar's  bed  was  not  where  I  thought. 
As  a  consequence  Farquhar  was  not  responsible  for 
these  maddening  sounds.  No  cat  could  have  made 
them.  While  I  sat  pondering  the  creaking  began 
again.  I  became  nervous,  but  jumped  out  of  bed 
and  made  my  way  to  Farquhar's  head.  I  shook  him 
awake,  and  then  told  him  to  listen.  He  listened. 
The  noise  stopped,  began  again,  stopped,  began 
again.     "I  don't  hear  anything,"  said  Farquhar, 


138  WAS  IT  A    WATCH? 

but  lie  spoke  sulkily,  and  I  had  to  think  that  either 
I  was  a  fool  or  he  was  shamming.  I  preferred  to 
disbelieve  Farquhar.  However,  he  insisted  that  he 
heard  nothing,  and  as  neither  of  us  had  any  matches, 
I  had  to  grope  my  way  back  to  bed.  I  thought  I 
might  stifle  the  noise  by  burying  my  head  in  the 
blankets,  but  I  was  too  wide  awake  for  that.  Every 
few  minutes  I  uncovered  my  head  to  listen,  and  soon 
again  I  heard  the  creak,  creak.  Farquhar  was 
either  asleep  again,  or  pretended  to  be  so,  for  I 
spoke  to  him  in  vain.  At  last  I  got  up,  put  one  foot 
into  the  remaining  slipper,  and,  with  the  other  foot 
bare,  began  to  search  for  the  culprit.  The  room  was 
mostly  carpeted  with  wax-cloth,  but  my  wrath  kept 
me  warm.  I  felt  my  way  to  the  spot  from  which  the 
noise  seemed  to  proceed,  and  soon  I  was  passing  my 
fingers  over  a  chest  of  drawers.  It  was  a  fearsome 
hunt,  but  I  was  not  in  the  mood  to  be  alarmed. 
Putting  my  ear  to  the  drawers  I  listened,  and  in  this 
way  I  came  in  time  to  the  conclusion  that  the  noise 
proceeded  from  a  top  drawer.  I  pulled  it  out  and 
heard  a  very  loud  creak,  creak.  For  a  moment  I 
hesitated  about  putting  in  my  hand,  but  courage 
came  to  me.  The  drawer  was  empty  except  for  one 
object.  I  took  a  firm  grip  of  it.  It  was  a  watch. 
It  must  be  Farquhar's  watch.  Soon  I  was  at  Far- 
quhar's bed,  shaking  him  again,  and  now  he  con- 
fessed. "I  put  it  into  the  drawer  to  deaden  the 
sound,"  he  said, "  because  I  thought  it  might  disturb 


WAS  IT  A    WATCH?  139 

you.  I  never  hear  it  myself,  but  other  men  have 
been  disturbed  by  it  in  the  night." 

He  would  give  me  no  more  satisfaction,  and  at 
last  went  off  to  sleep  again.  I  stood  wondering 
what  I  should  do  with  the  watch,  and  at  one  time  I 
thought  of  flinging  it  out  of  the  window.  In  the 
end,  however,  I  put  it  out  at  the  door,  and  after  that 
I  had  some  sleep. 

Since  then  I  have  seldom  talked  to  Farquhar 
about  his  watch  when  he  and  I  were  alone.  If  there 
are  a  number  of  us  together,  however,  we  ask  him 
the  time.  He  would  hand  the  watch  round  if  in  a 
sociable  mood.  It  was  a  silver  watch,  and  many 
persons  who  have  examined  it  are  of  opinion  that 
it  was  the  first  watch.  Farquhar  has  been  advised 
to  take  it  to  the  British  Museum.  Of  the  various 
theories  propounded  with  regard  to  it,  one  of  the 
most  curious  was  that  it  was  not  a  watch  at  all. 
This  was  the  suggestion  of  a  foreigner  who  has 
travelled  over  nearly  all  the  earth  and  has  seen 
queer  things.  Very  possibly,  he  says,  it  is  only 
something  made  in  the  form  of  a  watch,  and  what 
that  something  is  Farquhar  may  discover  unexpect- 
edly any  day.  My  own  opinion,  however,  is  that  it 
is  a  watch. 

Perhaps  because  he  never  had  any  other  watch, 
Farquhar  would  not  have  recognized  that  there  was 
anything  peculiar  about  his  watch  had  not  his 
friends  made  it  the  subject  of  so  much  discussion. 


140  WAS  IT  A    WATCH* 

When  we  asked  him,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice,  what 
time  it  was,  he  pulled  out  his  watch  and  began  his 
calculations  cheerfully.  He  never  knew  precisely 
how  he  arrived  at  his  conclusions,  for  we  were  not  in 
the  secrets  of  his  watch.  While  he  gazed  at  it,  how- 
ever, he  murmured  things  to  himself,  which  some 
took  for  incantations,  although  the  better  informed 
recognized  them  as  arithmetical  problems.  I  knew, 
though  I  cannot  say  how  I  knew  it,  that  he  had  first 
to  decide  whether  his  watch  was  slow  or  fast  to-day. 
Some  held  that  it  was  fast  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays, 
and  Saturdays,  and  slow  on  the  other  days  of  the 
week,  but  the  calculation,  I  am  convinced,  was  more 
elaborate  than  that.  At  such  a  time  he  would  glare 
fixedly  into  vacancy,  as  if  trying  to  tame  a  wild 
beast  by  the  power  of  the  human  eye.  He  was  really 
thinking  back  to  the  key,  so  to  speak,  to  his  watch. 
I  have  never  seen  anyone  so  distressed  with  thought, 
unless  perhaps  a  man  who  has  offered  to  show  the 
company  a  trick  with  cards  and  suddenly  fears  that 
he  has  forgotten  the  way.  Once  Farquhar  knew 
whether  his  watch  was  fast  or  slow,  his  face  cleared, 
and  we  were  aware  that  he  had  reached  compara- 
tively smooth  water.  It  was  now  merely  a  question 
of  addition  and  subtraction,  and  he  would  even  ask 
us  how  much  twenty-five  and  seventeen  made,  or 
what  was  over  after  you  took  eighteen  from  forty. 
Despite  these  questions,  however,  his  method  was 
always  a  mystery,  and  we   could  not  help  feeling 


WAS  IT  A   WAT  Oil?  141 

proud  of  him,  when  ultimately  he  gave  us  the  time 
to  a  minute.  There  was  no  vulgar  ostentation  about 
him  when  he  gave  us  the  solution.  He  went  through 
his  calculations  as  if  all  watches  were  like  his,  and 
it  was  only  when  we  raised  a  slight  cheer  that  he 
realized  that  we  had  been  getting  up  an  entertain- 
ment. 

Then,  indeed,  he  became  as  indignant  as  a  sensi- 
tive man  might  be  whose  pipe  had  been  held  up  to 
derision.  Light  talk  about  his  watch  he  took  as 
an  insult  to  himself,  and  sometimes  he  would  not 
argue.  He  could  argue,  however,  about  his  watch, 
generally  in  a  series  of  angry  barks.  The  curse  of 
life,  he  said,  was  that  nowadays  it  had  no  variety. 
We  (his  hearers)  were  so  much  alike  that  he  could 
only  distinguish  us  by  our  clothes.  He  said  we  did 
the  same  things  in  the  same  way ;  he  knew  what 
to  expect  of  us  with  as  much  certainty  as  he  knew 
that  the  bell  would  ring  if  he  pulled  the  cord.  In 
short,  we  were  like  our  watches,  all  on  the  same 
plan,  all  going  one  way,  and  all  going  at  the  same 
rate.  It  was  very  different  with  his  watch.  It  pos- 
sessed a  distinct  individuality.  Who,  he  would  like 
to  know,  cared  for  a  dog  that  would  answer  any 
stranger's  call  !  Yet  our  watches  were  like  such  a 
dog.  They  would  be  as  true  to  any  other  owner  as 
to  us ;  the  moment  they  changed  pockets  they  were 
subservient  to  a  new  master.  His  watch,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  part  of  himself.      His  forefingers 


142  WAS  IT  A    WATCH? 

were  of  immense  use  to  him,  but  suppose  them  cut 
off,  would  they  be  an  atom  of  service  to  any  other 
body  ?  It  was  exactly  so  with  his  watch.  If  it  were 
stolen,  he  would  at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  the  thief  could  make  nothing  of  it. 

It  may  have  been  noticed  that  I  have  spoken  of 
Farquhar's  watch  in  the  past  tense.  This  is  because 
he  has  another  watch  now.  I  have  also  said  that  I 
had  a  little  trouble  with  the  watch.  It  was  in  this 
way.  Farquhar  had  never  let  us  open  his  watch  to 
examine  the  works,  or  to  see  if  it  had  any,  and, 
though  I  am  not  inquisitive  about  other  people's 
affairs,  I  thought  I  would  like  to  look  into  the 
watch.  I  got  my  opportunity  one  evening  in  his 
rooms,  when  he  fell  asleep  while  I  was  talking  to 
him.  Very  softly  I  got  his  watch  out  of  his  pocket 
and  off  the  chain,  and  opened  it  with  the  point  of 
his  bread  knife,  and  was  trying  to  bend  one  of  the 
wheels  into  its  proper  place — for  I  understand 
watches — when  something  went  wrong,,  There  was 
a  whirring  of  wheels,  as  if  the  watch  were  at  last 
giving  vent  to  its  pent-up  emotion.  I  laid  it  down 
in  alarm,  and  then  observed  that  the  hands  were 
going  back  and  forward,  gesticulating  violently,  like 
a  man  hailing  a  bus.  When  the  watch  had  subsided 
a  little,  I  thought  I  might  venture  on  winding  it 
up.  Unfortunately  while  I  wound  I  was  watching 
the  sleeper,  and  suddenly  something  went  crack  in 
the  inside  of  the  watch.    I  put  it  to  my  ear.     It  had 


WAS  IT  A   WATCH?  U3 

stopped,  and  though  I  tried  it  with  marmalade 
and  struck  it,  nothing  would  make  it  go  again.  I 
paused  to  think.  Knowing  Farquhar  well,  I  was 
aware  that  if  he  knew  the  particulars  he  would  not 
scruple  to  say  that  I  had  broken  the  main-spring. 
To  obviate  all  unpleasantness  I  thought  the  wisest 
course  would  be  to  replace  the  watch  in  his  pocket, 
from  which  he  thinks  it  has  never  been  removed  ex- 
cept by  himself. 

Farquhar  has  never  worn  his  watch  since,  none  of 
us  can  tell  why.  He  has  an  idea  that  something 
must  have  happened  to  it,  but  he  avoids  the  subject. 
He  has  bought  a  gold  watch  that  keeps  excellent 
time,  and  though  formerly  he  was  never  too  early  or 
too  late  for  an  appointment,  he  now  misses  his  train 
at  least  twice  a  week. 


"THE  MAN  FKOM  NOWHERE." 

In  his  delightful  book,  "  The  Trials  of  a  Country 
Parson/'  Dr.  Jessop  says :  "  I  cannot  expect  to  be 
envied ;  but  surely  it  is  not  such  a  very  heavy  ca- 
lamity for  a  man  never  to  catch  sight  of  Truth  or  the 
World,  or  to  find  that  there  is  not  such  a  thing  as  an 
oyster-knife  in  his  parish.',  Dr.  Jessop,  therefore, 
does  not  know — and  there  must  be  many .  others  in 
his  happy  plight — that  these  two  society  papers 
made  themselves  at  one  time  a  debating  society  for 
discussing  Mr.  Eudyard  Kipling,  "  The  Man  from 
Nowhere,"  as  he  then  called  himself.  "  That  every- 
body knows  Mr.  Kipling's  books  "  was  the  World's 
argument,  and  "  That  nobody  ever  heard  of  Mr.  Kip- 
ling" was  Truth's.  As  a  result,  while  the  World 
and  other  papers  thought  Mr.  Kipling  such  a  ce- 
lebrity that  they  vied  with  each  in  describing  the 
tags  of  his  bootlaces,  Truth  and  other  papers  talked 
contemptuously  of  log-rolling. 

At  the  time  of  the  World- Truth  debate  Mr.  Kip- 
ling was  a  novelist  who,  six  months  previous,  was 
almost  quite  unknown  in  this  country.  Therefore, 
his  detractors  seemed  to  urge,  it  is  absurd  that  he 
can  be  a  great  man  already.    No,  said  his  admirers, 


"  THE  MAN  FROM  NOWHERE.''  145 

it  is  only  remarkable,  and  therefore  worth  making* 
a  greater  shout  over.  They  certainly  shouted  so 
loudly  as  to  justify  the  other  side  in  calling  him,  not 
the  Man  from  Nowhere,  but  the  Man  with  many 
Friends.  But  to  his  friends  let  this  folly  be 
charged,  not  to  him.  Even  if  he  did  take  their 
indiscriminate  eulogies  a  little  complacently,  can 
we,  with  any  generosity,  blame  a  young  man  for 
liking  to  hear  his  work  extolled?  Whether  Mr. 
Kipling  has  influential  friends  is  a  small  matter. 
The  great  question  is,  Can  he  write  ?  To  which  my 
own  answer  is  that  no  young  man  of  such  capacity 
has  appeared  in  our  literature  for  years. 

The  suddenness  of  Mr.  Kipling's  rise  is  to  be 
accounted  for  by  the  circumstances  in  which  his 
books  were  written.  He  is  an  Anglo-Indian,  and  in 
India  the  stories  which  we  have  only  now  an  oppor- 
tunity of  reading  have  been  known  for  a  long  time. 
Anglo-Indians  were  revelling — or  should  have  been 
— in  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  years  before  we  ever 
heard  of  them.  So  prolific  was  Mr.  Kipling,  while 
still  little  more  than  a  boy,  that  he  came  to  Eng- 
land the  other  day  the  author  of  eight  books.  Not 
all  of  these  are  as  yet  accessible  to  our  public,  but 
we  have  only  to  take  up  any  one  of  them  to  realize 
that  there  are  two  Bret  Hartes  in  the  world. 

One  of  them  is  a  book  of  verses,  called  "  Depart- 
mental Ditties,"  and  it  is  not  the  best.    Mr.  Kipling 

is  too  much  of  a  cynic  (as  yet)  to  be  a  poet,  and 
10 


146  "  THE  MAN  FROM  NOWHERE." 

a  good  many  of  his  ditties  are  only  spirited  dog- 
gerel. His  political  verse  is  chiefly  remarkable  for 
bad  taste,  which  unfortunately  characterizes  (as  yet) 
even  his  prose  productions.  The  latter  are  pub- 
lished in  a  somewhat  unfortunate  form  which  shows 
them  to  the  least  possible  advantage.  The  largest 
of  his  books  published  is  "  Plain  Tales  from  the 
Hills,"  and  it  is  a  collection  of  many  stories,  the 
scene  of  which  is  always  laid  in  India.  About  half 
of  this  book  would  be  better  cut  out,  not  because  it 
is  without  merit,  but  because  the  other  half  is  too 
good  to  be  weighted  by  matter  indifferent  by  com- 
parison. Mr.  Kipling  is  at  his  best  when  treating 
of  Tommy  Atkins  in  India,  and  of  the  natives.  He 
shows  meanly  when  writing  cynical  little  tales  of 
Anglo-Indian  life,  for  though  these  are  well  enough 
for  the  columns  of  society  journals,  their  view  of 
life  is  contemptible,  and  their  insight  into  the 
springs  of  human  action  seldom  rises  above  "  smart- 
ness." The  native  sketches,  which  read  marvel- 
lously true,  ought  to  go  into  the  book  "  In  Black  and 
White,"  and  the  stories  about  Mulvaney  and  Or- 
theris,  with  "  Soldiers  Three,"  and  some  charming 
stories  in  Macmillarts,  should  make  a  book  by  them- 
selves. Then,  instead  of  having  to  look  here  and 
there  for  it,  we  would  have  the  best  of  Mr.  Kipling 
in  two  volumes. 

But  it  will  well  repay  anyone  who  appreciates  a 
brilliant    style,  masterly  character-sketching,  and 


"  THE  MAN  FROM  NOWHERE."  147 

quaint  humor,  together  with  a  pronounced  gift  of 
story-telling,  to  read  the  books  as  they  are.  Some 
of  Mulvaney's  reminiscences  and  reflections  are 
worth  turning  a  whole  library  upside  down  to  get 
at.  Mulvaney  is  a  private  of  enormous  experience, 
the  sworn  friend  of  two  other  privates,  Ortheris,  a 
cockney,  and  Leeroyd  from  Yorkshire.  Had  he 
been  able  to  keep  from  "  the  dhrink  "  he  would  cer- 
tainly have  got  his  commission,  for  he  is  a  man  of 
parts ;  as  it  is,  he  is  an  inimitable  story-teller — 
always  a  fine  animal,  and  for  moments  something 
better.  One  may  question  whether  Lever  ever  drew 
such  a  jewel  of  an  Irishman,  for  even  Mickey  Free 
is  only  a  glorious  caricature,  and  Mr.  Kipling  avoids 
burlesque.  Mulvaney  is  obviously  the  author's  fa- 
vorite among  his  characters,  but  Ortheris  is  not 
drawn  with  less  skill ;  indeed,  out  of  Dickens,  there 
is  hardly  a  cockney  of  the  costermonger  class  to 
place  beside  him.  One  of  Mr.  Kipling's  complete 
triumphs,  too,  is  gained  with  Ortheris.  Now  and 
again  he  seeks  to  give  a  touch  of  pathos  to  Mul- 
vaney, but  Mr.  Kipling  is  too  cynical  to  be  sure  of 
himself  when  he  would  be  tender,  and  Mulvaney's 
sentiment  scarcely  rings  true.  But  there  is  genu- 
ine pathos  walking  hand  in  hand  with  humor  in 
"  The  Madness  of  Private  Ortheris,"  a  gem  of  a  story, 
in  which  the  cockney  loses  his  head  as  he  thinks  of 
the  delights  of  low  life  in  London,  among  which  (for 
he  is  far  away  in  India)  is  the  smell  of  rotten  fish. 


148  tf  THE  MAN  FROM  NOWHERE." 

Here  we  have  a  flash  into  the  causes  that  may  make 
deserters  of  brave  soldiers.  It  is  only  one  of  a  hun- 
dred fine  touches.  Leeroyd  is  not  drawn  with  much 
subtlety.  He  is  only  a  stolid  block,  useful  as  a  butt, 
but  we  never  see  the  man  inside  the  animal's  body. 
Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  are  undoubtedly  Mr.  Kip- 
ling's chief  achievement  as  yet,  and  he  cannot  go  on 
writing  of  them  forever.  Will  he  last !  some  critics 
are  asking,  and  for  my  part  I  think  he  will.  One 
would  be  reluctant  to  believe  that  a  writer  could  be- 
gin so  well,  and  then  stop.  It  may  be  hoped  that 
his  cynicism  (which  is  not  Thackeray's,  but  rather 
that  of  one  who  rejoices  in  being  a  cynic)  will  be 
shaken  off,  and  that  then  his  characters  will  have 
souls.  Though  his  style  is  most  picturesque  and  ef- 
fective, it  runs  riot  at  times,  and  he  is  so  anxious 
to  be  startling  that  he  is  occasionally  disgusting. 
"  Whin  I  roused,  the  dhrink  was  dyin'  out  in  me,  an* 
I  felt  as  tho'  a  she-cat  had  littered  in  my  mouth,"  is 
one  of  many  phrases  that  should  not  appear  in  the 
collected  edition  of  his  works.  Yet  a  young  writer 
of  Mr.  Kipling's  capacity  is  more  hopeful  when  he 
errs  on  the  side  of  extravagant  realism  than  when  he 
is  content  to  be  inartistically  conventional.  He  has 
not  as  yet  drawn  a  lady  with  much  success.  On  the 
whole,  all  we  can  say  as  yet — but  it  is  a  great  deal — 
is  that  few,  if  any,  novelists  who  have  become  great 
did  such  promising  work  at  his  age. 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED. 

Now  is  the  time  for  a  real  holiday.  Take  it  in 
bed,  if  you  are  wise. 

People  have  tried  a  holiday  in  bed  before  now, 
and  found  it  a  failure,  but  that  was  because  they 
were  ignorant  of  the  rules.  They  went  to  bed  with 
the  open  intention  of  staying-  there,  say,  three  days, 
and  found  to  their  surprise  that  each  morning  they 
wanted  to  get  up.  This  was  a  novel  experience  to 
them,  they  flung  about  restlessly,  and  probably 
shortened  their  holiday.  The  proper  thing  is  to 
take  your  holiday  in  bed  with  a  vague  intention  of 
getting  up  in  another  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  real 
pleasure  of  lying  in  bed  after  you  are  awake  is 
largely  due  to  the  feeling  that  you  ought  to  get  up. 
To  take  another  quarter  of  an  hour  then  becomes  a 
luxury.  You  are,  in  short,  in  the  position  of  the 
man  who  dined  on  larks.  Had  he  seen  the  hundreds 
that  were  ready  for  him,  all  set  out  on  one  monster 
dish,  they  would  have  turned  his  stomach  ;  but  get- 
ting them  two  at  a  time,  he  went  on  eating  till  all 
the  larks  were  exhausted.  His  feeling  of  uncer- 
tainty as  to  whether  these  might  not  be  his  last  two 
larks  is  your  feeling  that,  perhaps,  you  will  have  to 


150  A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED. 

get  up  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Deceive  yourself  in 
this  way,  and  your  holiday  in  bed  will  pass  only  too 
quickly. 

Sympathy  is  what  all  the  world  is  craving  for,  and 
sympathy  is  what  the  ordinary  holiday-maker  never 
gets.  How  can  we  be  expected  to  sympathize  with 
you  when  we  know  you  are  off  to  Perthshire  to  fish  ? 
No ;  we  say  we  wish  we  were  you,  and  forget  that 
your  holiday  is  sure  to  be  a  hollow  mockery ;  that 
your  child  will  jam  her  finger  in  the  railway  car- 
riage, and  scream  to  the  end  of  the  journey ;  that 
you  will  lose  your  luggage ;  that  the  guard  will 
notice  your  dog  beneath  the  seat,  and  insist  on  its 
being  paid  for  ;  that  you  will  be  caught  in  a  Scotch 
mist  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  be  put  on  gruel 
for  a  fortnight ;  that  your  wife  will  fret  herself  into 
a  fever  about  the  way  the  servant,  who  has  been  left 
at  home,  is  carrying  on  with  her  cousins,  the  milk- 
man, and  the  policeman ;  and  that  you  will  be  had 
up  for  trespassing.  Yet,  when  you  tell  us  you  are 
off  to-morrow,  we  have  never  the  sympathy  to  say, 
"  Poor  fellow,  I  hope  you'll  pull  through  somehow." 
If  it  is  an  exhibition  you  go  to  gape  at,  we  never 
picture  you  dragging  your  weary  legs  from  one 
department  to  another,  and  wondering  why  your 
back  is  so  sore.  Should  it  be  the  seaside,  we  talk 
heartlessly  to  you  about  the  "briny,"  though  we 
must  know,  if  we  would  stop  to  think,  that  if  there 
is  one  holiday  more  miserable  than  all  the  others,  it 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED.  151 

is  that  spent  at  the  seaside,  when  you  wander  along 
the  weary  beach  and  fling  pebbles  at  the  sea,  and 
wonder  how  long  it  will  be  till  dinner-time.  Were 
we  to  come  down  to  see  you,  we  would  probably  find 
you,  not  on  the  beach,  but  moving  slowly  through 
the  village,  looking  in  at  the  one  milliner's  window, 
or  laboriously  reading  what  the  one  grocer's  labels 
say  on  the  subject  of  pale  ale,  compressed  beef, 
or  vinegar.  There  was  never  an  object  that  called 
aloud  for  sympathy  more  than  you  do,  but  you  get 
not  a  jot  of  it.  You  should  take  the  first  train  home 
and  go  to  bed  for  three  days. 

To  enjoy  your  holiday  in  bed  to  the  full,  you 
should  let  it  be  vaguely  understood  that  there  is 
something  amiss  with  you.  Don't  go  into  details, 
for  they  are  not  necessary ;  and,  besides,  you  want 
to  be  dreamy  more  or  less,  and  the  dreamy  state  is 
not  consistent  with  a  definite  ailment.  The  moment 
one  takes  to  bed  he  gets  sympathy.  He  may  be 
suffering  from  a  tearing  headache  or  a  tooth  that 
makes  him  cry  out ;  but  if  he  goes  about  his  busi- 
ness, or  even  flops  in  a  chair,  true  sympathy  is 
denied  him.  Let  him  take  to  bed  with  one  of  those 
illnesses  of  which  he  can  say  with  accuracy  that  he 
is  not  quite  certain  what  is  the  matter  with  him,  and 
his  wife,  for  instance,  will  want  to  bathe  his  brow. 
She  must  not  be  made  too  anxious.  That  would  not 
only  be  cruel  to  her,  but  it  would  wake  you  from  the 
dreamy  state.     She  must  simply  see  that  you  are 


152  A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED. 

"not  yourself."  Women  have  an  idea  that  unless 
men  are  "  not  themselves  "  they  will  not  take  to  bed, 
and  as  a  consequence  your  wife  is  tenderly  thought- 
ful of  you.  Every  little  while  she  will  ask  you  if 
you  are  feeling  any  better  now,  and  you  can  reply, 
with  the  old  regard  for  truth,  that  you  are  "  much 
about  it."  You  may  even  (for  your  own  pleasure) 
talk  of  getting  up  now,  when  she  will  earnestly  urge 
you  to  stay  in  bed  until  you  feel  easier.  You  con- 
sent ;  indeed,  you  are  ready  to  do  anything  to  please 
her. 

The  ideal  holiday  in  bed  does  not  require  the 
presence  of  a  ministering  angel  in  the  room  all  day. 
You  frequently  prefer  to  be  alone,  and  point  out  to 
your  wife  that  you  cannot  have  her  trifling  with  her 
health  for  your  sake,  and  so  she  must  go  out  for  a 
walk.  She  is  reluctant,  but  finally  goes,  protesting 
that  you  are  the  most  unselfish  of  men,  and  only  too 
good  for  her.  This  leaves  a  pleasant  aroma  behind 
it,  for  even  when  lying  in  bed,  we  like  to  feel  that 
we  are  uncommonly  fine  fellows.  After  she  has 
gone  you  get  up  cautiously,  and,  walking  stealthily 
to  the  wardrobe,  produce  from  the  pocket  of  your 
greatcoat  a  good  novel.  A  holiday  in  bed  must  be 
arranged  for  beforehand.  With  a  gleam  in  your  eye 
you  slip  back  to  bed,  double  your  pillow  to  make  it 
higher,  and  begin  to  read.  You  have  only  got  to 
the  fourth  page,  when  you  make  a  horrible  discov- 
ery— namely,  that  the  book  is  not  cut.    An  experi- 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED.  153 

enced  holiday-maker  would  have  had  it  cut  the 
night  before,  but  this  is  your  first  real  holiday,  or 
perhaps  you  have  been  thoughtless.  In  any  case 
you  have  now  matter  to  think  of.  You  are  torn  in 
two  different  ways.  There  is  your  coat  on  the  floor 
with  a  knife  in  it,  but  you  cannot  reach  the  coat 
without  getting  up  again.  Ought  you  to  get  the 
knife  or  to  give  up  reading?  Perhaps  it  takes  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  decide  this  question,  and  you 
decide  it  by  discovering  a  third  course.  Being  a 
sort  of  an  invalid,  you  have  certain  privileges  which 
would  be  denied  you  if  you  were  merely  sitting  in  a 
chair  in  the  agonies  of  neuralgia.  One  of  the  glori- 
ous privileges  of  a  holiday  in  bed  is  that  you  are 
entitled  to  cut  books  with  your  fingers.  So  you  cut 
the  novel  in  this  way,  and  read  on. 

Those  who  have  never  tried  it  may  fancy  that 
there  is  a  lack  of  incident  in  a  holiday  in  bed. 
There  could  not  be  a  more  monstrous  mistake. 
You  are  in  the  middle  of  a  chapter,  when  suddenly 
you  hear  a  step  upon  the  stair.  Your  loving  ears 
tell  you  that  your  wife  has  returned,  and  is  hasten- 
ing to  you.  Now,  what  happens?  The  book  dis- 
appears beneath  the  pillow,  and  when  she  enters 
the  room  softly  you  are  lying  there  with  your  eyes 
shut.     This  is  not  merely  incident ;  it  is  drama. 

What  happens  next  depends  on  circumstances. 
She  says,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Are  you  feeling  any  easier  now,  John  ?  " 


154  A  HOLIDAY  IJV  BED. 

No  answer. 

"  Oh,  I  believe  lie  is  sleeping.'' 

Then  she  steals  from  the  room,  and  you  begin  to 
read  again. 

During  a  holiday  in  bed  one  never  thinks,  of 
course,  of  analyzing  his  actions.  If  you  had  done 
so  in  this  instance,  you  would  have  seen  that  you 
pretended  sleep  because  you  had  got  to  an  exciting 
passage.  You  love  your  wife,  but,  wife  or  no  wife, 
you  must  see  how  the  passage  ends. 

Possibly  the  little  scene  plays  differently,  as  thus : 

"  John,  are  you  feeling  any  easier  now  ?  " 

No  answer. 

"  Are  you  asleep  f  " 

No  answer. 

"  What  a  pity !  I  don't  want  to  waken  him,  and 
yet  the  fowl  will  be  spoilt." 

"  Is  that  you  back,  Marion  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear ;  I  thought  you  were  asleep." 

"  No,  only  thinking." 

"You  think  too  much,  dear.  I  have  cooked  a 
chicken  for  you." 

"  I  have  no  appetite." 

"I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  can  give  it  to  the  children." 

"Oh,  as  it's  cooked,  you  may  as  well  bring  it 
up." 

In  that  case  the  reason  of  your  change  of  action 
is  obvious.  But  why  do  you  not  let  your  wife  know 
that  you  have  been  reading  ?  This  is  another  matter 


A  HOLIDAY  IN  BED.  155 

that  you  never  reason  about.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
of  your  craving  for  sympathy,  and  you  fear  that  if 
you  were  seen  enjoying  a  novel  the  sympathy  would 
go.  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  a  holiday  in  bed  is  never 
perfect  without  a  secret.  Monotony  must  be  guard- 
ed against,  and  so  long  as  you  keep  the  book  to  your- 
self your  holiday  in  bed  is  a  healthy  excitement. 
A  stolen  book  (as  we  may  call  it)  is  like  stolen  fruit, 
sweeter  than  what  you  can  devour  openly.  The  boy 
enjoys  his  stolen  apple  because  at  any  moment  he 
may  have  to  slip  it  down  the  leg  of  his  trousers  and 
pretend  that  he  has  merely  climbed  the  tree  to 
enjoy  the  scenery.  You  enjoy  your  book  doubly 
because  you  feel  that  it  is  a  forbidden  pleasure. 
Or  do  you  conceal  the  book  from  your  wife  lest 
she  should  think  that  you  are  over-exerting  your- 
self ?  She  must  not  to  be  made  anxious  on  your 
account.    Ah,  that  is  it. 

People  who  pretend  (for  it  must  be  pretence)  that 
they  enjoy  their  holiday  in  the  country,  explain  that 
the  hills  or  the  sea  gave  them  such  an  appetite. 
I  could  never  myself  feel  the  delight  of  being  able 
to  manage  an  extra  herring  for  breakfast,  but  it 
should  be  pointed  out  that  neither  mountains  nor 
oceans  give  you  such  an  appetite  as  a  holiday  in 
bed.  What  makes  people  eat  more  anywhere  is 
that  they  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  in  bed  you 
have  lots  of  time  for  meals.  As  for  the  quality  of 
the  food  supplied,  there  is  no  comparison.    In  the 


156  A  HOLIDAY  IJV  BED. 

Highlands  it  is  ham  and  eggs  all  day  till  you 
sicken.  At  the  seaside  it  is  fish  till  the  bones  stick 
in  your  mouth.  But  in  bed  —  oh,  there  you  get 
something  worth  eating.  You  don't  take  three  big 
meals  a  day,  but  twelve  little  ones,  and  each  time 
it  is  something  different  from  the  last.  There  are 
delicacies  for  breakfast,  for  your  four  luncheons  and 
your  five  dinners.  You  explain  to  your  wife  that 
you  have  lost  your  appetite,  and  she  believes  you, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  has  the  sense  to  hurry  on 
your  dinner.  At  the  clatter  of  dishes  (for  which  you 
have  been  lying  listening)  you  raise  your  poor  head, 
and  say  faintly : 

"  Really,  Marion,  I  can't  touch  food." 

"  But  this  is  nothing,"  she  says,  "  only  the  wing 
of  a  partridge." 

You  take  a  side  glance  at  it,  and  see  that  there  is 
also  the  other  wing  and  the  body  and  two  legs. 
Your  alarm  thus  dispelled,  you  say  : 

"I  really  can't." 

"  But,  dear,  it  is  so  beautifully  cooked." 

"  Yes,  but  I  have  no  appetite." 

"  But  try  to  take  it,  John,  for  my  sake." 

Then  for  her  sake  you  say  she  can  leave  it  on  the 
chair,  and  perhaps  you  will  just  taste  it.  As  soon  as 
she  has  gone  you  devour  that  partridge,  and  when 
she  comes  back  she  has  the  sense  to  say : 

"Why  you  have  scarcely  eaten  anything.  What 
could  you  take  for  supper  ?  " 


A  HOLIDAY  IJST  BED.  157 

You  say  you  can  take  nothing,  but  if  she  likes 
she  can  cook  a  large  sole,  only  you  won't  be  able  to 
touch  it. 

"  Poor  dear  !  "  she  says,  "  your  appetite  has  com- 
pletely gone,"  and  then  she  rushes  to  the  kitchen  to 
cook  the  sole  with  her  own  hands.  In  half  an  hour 
she  steals  into  your  room  with  it,  and  then  you  (who 
have  been  wondering  why  she  is  such  a  time)  start 
up  protesting : 

"  I  hope,  Marion,  this  is  nothing  for  me." 

"  Only  the  least  bit  of  a  sole,  dear." 

"  But  I  told  you  I  could  eat  nothing." 

"  Well,  this  is  nothing,  it  is  so  small." 

You  look  again,  and  see  with  relief  that  it  is  a 
large  sole. 

u  I  would  much  rather  that  you  took  it  away." 

"But,  dear " 

"  I  tell  you  I  have  no  appetite." 

"  Of  course  I  know  that ;  but  how  can  you  hope  to 
preserve  your  strength  if  you  eat  so  little  !  You 
have  had  nothing  all  day." 

You  glance  at  her  face  to  see  if  she  is  in  earnest, 
for  you  can  remember  three  breakfasts,  four  lunch- 
eons, two  dinners,  and  sandwiches  between ;  but  evi- 
dently she  is  not  jesting.     Then  you  yield. 

"  Oh,  well,  to  keep  my  health  up  I  may  just  put  a 
fork  into  it." 

"  Do,  dear  ;  it  will  do  you  good,  though  you  have 
no  caring  for  it." 


158  A  HOLIDAY  IJST  BED. 

Take  a  holiday  in  bed,  if  only  to  discover  what  an 
angel  your  wife  is. 

There  is  one  thing  to  guard  against.  Never  call 
it  a  holiday.  Continue  not  to  feel  sure  what  is 
wrong  with  you,  and  to  talk  vaguely  of  getting  up 
presently.  Your  wife  will  suggest  calling  in  the 
doctor,  but  pooh-pooh  him.  Be  firm  on  that  point. 
The  chances  are  that  he  won't  understand  your 
case. 


a 


a  .3 
o    ^ 


2    2 


^5 


IS  IT  A  MAN? 


I. 


I  came  upon  his  grave  accidentally  a  few  weeks 
ago  while  taking  a  short  cut  through  the  cemetery 
of  an  unlovely  provincial  town.  His  name  I  had 
forgotten  the  night  I  heard  it  years  ago :  had  flung 
it  away,  so  to  speak,  with  the  handbills  he  gave 
me  at  the  same  time,  but  the  wording  on  the  tomb- 
stone recalled  his  story  to  me  as  vividly  as  if  it  was 
a  long  lost  friend  whom  I  had  suddenly  struck 
against.  I  laughed  at  the  story  when  he  told  it  to 
me,  but  when  I  read  it  in  brief  on  the  tombstone  I 
wondered  why  I  had  laughed. 

We  only  met  once,  and  it  was  in  London  at  the 
theatre.  His  stall  adjoined  mine.  When  his  lips 
were  at  rest  he  was  a  melancholy  looking  little  man, 
but  frequently  he  spoke  to  himself,  and  then  all 
character  went  out  of  his  face.  For  a  time  he  paid 
no  attention  to  the  acting,  but  by  and  by  he  sat  up 
excitedly  in  his  seat,  rubbed  his  hands  nervously 
on  his  trousers,  and  leaning  in  my  direction,  peered, 
not  at  the  stage,  but  at  the  wings.  I  heard  him 
mutter,  "Her  cue  in  a  moment,  and  I  don't   see 


160  18  IT  A  JdANt 

her ! "  He  looked  around  the  house  as  if  to  signal 
to  everybody  that  something  was  about  to  happen, 
and  then  I  noticed  his  feet  begin  to  beat  the  floor 
instinctively,  and  his  one  palm  run  to  the  other. 
Next  moment  the  heavy  father  whispered  to  the  old, 
and  therefore  comic  spinster,  "  But  not  a  word  of 
this  to  my  daughter,  here  she  comes.'' 

The  heroine  of  the  piece  sailed  on  to  the  stage, 
with  tears  for  her  father  and  smiles  for  the  audience, 
and,  as  I  thought,  one  quick  glance  for  my  neighbor. 
His  feet  pattered  softly  on  the  floor,  as  a  sign  to  the 
audience  to  cheer,  but  they  were  reluctant,  and  after 
she  had  given  them  an  imploring  glance,  she  began 
to  speak  slowly,  as  one  saying  to  herself  between 
her  spoken  words,  "  I  am  still  quite  willing  to  stop 
if  you  will  applaud  me."  And  she  was  applauded, 
for  my  neighbor's  feet  at  last  set  others  a-going, 
and  then  she  courtesied  and  waited  for  more,  and 
then  we  all  became  energetic.  The  little  man  had 
been  breathing  quick  in  his  excitement,  but  now  he 
heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  whispered  to  me,  in 
exultation,  "  What  a  reception  the  O'Eeilly  has  got, 
sir,  and  quite  spontaneous.  The  same  thing  occurs 
every  night,  every  night,  every  night !  Hush !  you 
will  see  acting  now." 

He  had  silenced  me  when  I  was  about  to  ask  him 
if  he  was  here  every  night.  I  judged  him  an  ardent 
admirer  of  Miss  O'Eeilly,  and  had  further  evidence 
during  the  first  act  that  one  man  may  lead  the 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  161 

applause  as  a  conductor  leads  the  orchestra.    When 

Miss  Helmsley  entered,  and  some  pittites  began  to 

cheer,  my  neighbor  cried  "  Sh-sh  "  so  fiercely  that 

the    demonstration    stopped    abruptly,    and    Miss 

Helmsley  withdrew  her  courtesy.    When  the  heavy 

father  stopped  in  the  middle   of  his  long  speech 

for  a  "hand"  to  help  him  on  his  way,   he  would 

have  got  it  but  for  the  "  Sh-sh  "  of  the  little  man. 

When  the  comedian  nudged  the  elderly  spinster  in 

the  ribs,  which  is  how  elderly  spinsters  are  made 

love  to  on  the  stage,  some  ladies  giggled,  but  my 

neighbor  looked  at  them   with  a   face   that  said, 

"  There  is  nothing  funny  in  that,"  and  they  restrained 

their  mirth.     But  when  Miss  O'Eeilly  snatched  the 

smoking  cap  from  Leonard  and  put  it  on  her  own 

flaxen  head,  he  chuckled  till  the   whole  audience 

admitted  the  fun  of  it,  and  when  Miss  O'Reilly  told 

Lord  John  to  stand  back   and  let   her  pass,  my 

neighbor  brought  down  the  house  ;  and  when  she 

made  her  reluctant  exit  he  brought  down  the  house 

again  ;  and  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act  he 

shouted  "  O'Eeilly  "  until  we  were  all  infected.     Not 

until  he  had  her  before  the  curtain  would  he  retire, 

and  then  it  was  to   speak   about  her  to  me.     The 

exchange  of  a  vesta  introduced  us  to  each  other. 

"  You  have  seen  the  piece  before  1  "  I  asked,  with 

the  good-nature  that  is  born  of  a  cigarette.     I  had 

already  sufficient  interest  in  him  to  wonder  who  he 

was. 

11 


162  18  IT  A  MAN? 

"  The  piece  ?  H  he  echoed,  indifferently.  "  Oh,  yes  ; 
I  have  seen  the  greater  part  of  it  frequently." 

"  How  does  it  end  ! " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  contemptuously,  "  I 
always  walk  out  of  the  house  just  before  the  last 
tableau." 

"Is  Miss  O'Eeilly  not  on  the  stage  in  that 
tableau  !  "  I  asked. 

"  She  is  not,"  he  replied,  rapping  out  an  oath  or 
two,  and  trembling  with  rage.  "  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  anything  so  monstrous  ?  She  is  leading  lady,  the 
idol  of  the  town,  and  yet  she  is  not  on  at  the  end. 
Excuse  me,  sir.  I  am  always  taken  in  this  way 
when  I  think  of  it." 

He  bit  his  cigarette  in  two  and  asked  for  another 
vesta.     Then  he  explained. 

"  She  dies,  you  know,  in  the  middle  of  the  act." 

"  Ah,  that  accounts  for  it,"  I  said. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  retorted,  "  she  ought  not  to  die 
until  the  tableau.  And  if  she  had  to  die  then,  that 
should  have  been  the  tableau.  What  do  people 
come  to  the  theatre  to  see  ?  " 

"  The  play,"  I  suggested. 

"  Pooh,  the  play  !  "  he  sneered.  "  There  are 
twenty  plays  to  be  seen  nightly  at  West  End  thea- 
tres, but  only  one  O'Reilly.  They  come  to  see  the 
O'Reilly,  sir,  and  it  is  defrauding  the  public  to  let 
her  die  a  moment  before  the  end." 


18  IT  A  MAN?  163 


"Still,"  I  said,  "  the  author " 

u  Pshaw ! "  he  broke  in,  "  who  thinks  of  the  author  ? 
He  could  have  easily  have  brought  down  the  curtain 
on^the  O'Eeilly's  death,  and  I  am  confident  he  meant 
to  do  it.  But  Helmsley  is  the  management's  niece, 
and  insisted  on  being  the  only  lady  in  the  tableau. 
You  noticed  that  Helmsley  was  a  complete  frost !  I 
distinctly  heard  someone  hissing  her." 

"  So  did  I,"  I  said,  smiling,  for  the  someone  had 
been  himself. 

"  You  heard  it,  too,"  he  cried,  audaciously.  "  Thank 
you  sir,"  he  said,  and  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"The  O'Beilly  herself,"  he  added,  "had  no  wish 
to  be  in  the  tableau,  but  she  knew  the  public  would 
expect  it.     She  is  a  woman,  that,  sir !  " 

"She  is,"  I  agreed. 

"  Ha !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You,  too,  were  struck  by 
it  ?  But  she  impresses  everyone  in  the  same  way. 
The  management  pay  her  a  princely  salary,  but  she 
is  worth  it.  Did  you  hear  how  that  man  in  the  pit 
laughed  over  her  lines  about  bread  and  cheese  and 
kisses  ?    I  wonder  who  he  is  ?  " 

"What  salary  does  she  get?"  I  asked,  with 
the  curiosity  of  a  theatre-goer. 

"  They  say,"  he  replied,  looking  at  me  sharply, 
"that  she  gets  eighty  pounds  a  week." 

"  Hem  !  "  I  said. 

He  coughed.  "  What  a  carriage  she  has ! "  he  ex- 
claimed ;  and  then  waited  for  me  to  agree. 


164  IS  IT  A  MAN? 

"  Wonderful ! "  I  said,  for  I  never  contradict  a  man 
who  is  in  love. 

"  You  think  she  has  a  wonderful  carriage  ?  "  he 
asked,  as  if  I  had  put  the  idea  into  his  head.  "  Yes, 
you  are  quite  right.  I  will  tell  her  you  remarked 
on  it." 

"  You  know  her  personally  ?  N 

"  I  have  that  honor,"  he  replied,  with  dignity. 
"  Candidly  now,  is  not  her  elocution  superb  ?  " 

"It  is,"  I  said. 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  he  answered,  "  and  you  have 
used  the  one  word  that  properly  describes  it. 
Superb  !  Yes,  that  is  the  very  word.  I  will  tell  her 
you  said  superb.  I  see  you  know  acting,  sir,  when 
you  see  it.  Not  that  I  would  call  it  acting.  Would 
you  call  it  acting !  " 

"Certainly  not,"  I  answered  recklessly,  but  hop- 
ing he  would  not  ask  me  to  give  it  a  name. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  acting.  It  is  simply 
genius." 

"  Genius,"  I  said  from  memory,  "  is  all  the  talents 
in  a  nutshell." 

"  Ha !  "  he  cried,  "  that  is  how  you  would  describe 
her  ?  All  the  talents  in  a  nutshell !  What  a  capital 
line  for  the  advertisements.  All  the  talents  in  a  nut- 
shell!   I  will  tell  her  you  said  that  about  her." 

He  lowered  his  voice.  "  Press  ?  "  he  asked  with 
some  awe.     I  shook  my  head. 

"  Got  friends  on  the  press  ?  "  he  next  inquired. 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  165 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  remembering  that  a  pressman  owed 
me  five  pounds. 

"Critics?" 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"Then,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "put  them  up  to  that 
line,  '  all  the  talents  in  a  nutshell,'  or  stop,  would 
you  mind  giving  me  their  private  address  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  I  cannot." 

"  That  is  a  pity,  because  if  you  could  see  your  way 
to  a  '  par/  I  think  I  might  be  able  to  introduce  you 
to  the  O'Eeilly.     But  she  is  very  particular." 

"  You  are  an  enthusiast  about  her,"  I  remarked. 

"Who  could  help  it?"  he  answered.  "I  have 
watched  her  career  since  she  was — on  my  soul,  sir, 
since  she  was  nobody  in  particular.  There  was  a 
time  when  that  woman  was  no  more  famous  than 
you  are.  You  were  speaking  of  her  genius  a  min- 
ute ago,  but,  would  you  believe  it,  she  rose  from 
the  ranks,  positively  from  the  ranks." 

If  I  had  swooned  at  this,  his  hands  would  have 
been  ready  to  catch  me  ;  but  I  kept  my  senses. 

"  Your  interest  in  her,"  I  ventured  to  say,  "  was 
very  natural,  but  it  must  have  taken  up  a  good  deal 
of  your  time." 

"  All  my  time,"  he  said. 

"  Except  during  business  hours,  of  course." 

"  From  the  time  I  rise  until  midnight." 

"  Then  you  have  no  profession  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  profession." 


166  18  IT  A  MAN? 

"What?" 

"  The  interest  I  take  in  her." 

a  And  did  you  never  do  anything  else  ?  "  I  asked, 
beginning  to  envy  the  little  man  his  father. 

At  once  the  melancholy  look,  of  which  I  have 
spoken,  came  back  to  his  face. 

"  I  used  to  be  in  the  profession  myself,"  he  said, 
sighing,  "  I  am  Jolly  Little  Jim." 

He  did  not  look  it  at  that  moment. 

"  You  have  forgotten  me,  T  see,"  he  said,  dolefully. 
"  Think  a  moment.    Jolly  Little  Jim  was  the  name." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  never  heard  it,"  I  had  to  admit. 

"Nonsense,"  he  answered,  testily.  "Everybody 
knew  that  name  once.  I  got  no  other,  though  my 
real  name  is  James  Thorpe.  Why,  I  advertised  as 
Jolly  Little  Jim.     You  must  have  heard  it." 

"  Perhaps  I  have,"  I  replied,  pitying  his  distress. 

"  If  you  would  care  to  read  my  press  notices,"  he 
began  putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  "I  can " 

"  Not  to  night,"  I  interposed,  hurriedly. 

"  I  can  repeat  most  of  them,"  he  said,  brightly. 

"  Rather  tell  me  why  you  gave  up  a  profession,"  I 
said,  "which  you  doubtless  adorned." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  answered,  again  pressing  my 
hand.  "  Well,  sir,  the  O'Reilly  has  the  responsibility 
for  that." 

"You  gave  up  acting  because  it  interfered  with 
your  interest  in  her  ?  " 

"  You  may  put  it  in  that  way.    I  gave  up  every- 


u  I  used  to  be  in  the  profession  myself,"  he  said,  sighing,  "  I  am 
Jolly  Little  Jim." 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  167 

thing  for  her.  If  that  woman,  sir,  had  asked  me  to 
choose  between  her  and  my  press  notices,  I  believe 
I  would  have  burned  them." 

"  How  has  she  rewarded  you ! "  I  asked,  seeing 
that  he  was  of  a  communicative  nature. 

"  She  married  me,"  he  answered,  drawing  himself 
up  to  his  full  height.     "  Yes,  I  am  her  husband !" 

It  was  I  who  shook  his  hand  this  time.  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else  to  do.  He  was  beginning  his 
story,  when  the  bell  tinkled,  warning  us  to  return  to 
our  seats. 

"  She  is  on  immediately,"  he  said,  "  so  we  must  go 
back  and  give  her  a  hand.  I'll  meet  you  here  again 
after  the  second  act." 

II. 

Dubing  the  second  act  Mr.  Thorpe  behaved  as 
previously,  drinking  in  Miss  O'Reilly's  every  word, 
cheering  her  comings  and  goings,  and  yawning,  and 
even  reading  a  newspaper,  when  he  should  have 
been  listening  to  Miss  Helmsley.  Once  I  saw  him 
make  a  note  on  his  programme,  and  felt  sure  it  was 
"  All  the  talents  in  a  nut-shell."  I  started  him  on 
his  story  as  soon  as  he  joined  me  in  the  smoking- 
room.  (He  had  remained  in  his  seat  to  shout 
"  O'Reilly.") 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  set  eyes  on  her,"  he  began, 
"  was  at  Dublin,  where  we  had  both  been  engaged 


168  IS  IT  A  MAN? 

for  pantomime.  Yes,  that  woman  once  played  in 
pantomime  ;  and,  what  is  more,  she  was  only  second 
girl.  That  is  a  strange  thing  to  think  of.  I  was  the 
first  villain,  Deepdyeo,  and  the  Shamrock  said  of  my 
creation,  'Another  part  admirably  rendered  is  the 
Deepdyeo  of  Mr.  James  Thorpe,  better  known  to 
fame  as  Jolly  Little  Jim.  Mr.  Thorpe,  who  was  re- 
ceived with  an  ovation ' " 

"  But  you  were  to  tell  me  of  Miss  O'Beilly,"  I  re- 
minded him . 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  shall  never  forget  that  first 
meeting.  It  took  place  at  rehearsal,  and  when  I  left 
the  theatre  that  afternoon  I  was  a  changed  man." 

"  You  fell  in  love  with  her  at  first  sight  ?  " 

"  Not  absolutely  at  first  sight.  You  see  I  was  in- 
troduced to  her  before  the  rehearsal  began,  and 
there  was  no  opportunity  of  falling  in  love  with  her 
then." 

"  Still,  she  had  impressed  you  ?  " 

"  How  could  she  impress  me  before  I  had  seen  her 
do  anything  ?  What  is  it  in  a  woman  that  one  falls 
in  love  with  ?  " 

"Who  can  tell?  "I  said. 

"Anybody  can  tell,"  he  answered,  putting  me 
down  for  a  bachelor.  "  It  is  the  genius  in  her,  or 
rather  what  we  consider  genius,  for  many  men  make 
a  mistake  about  that." 

"  So  you  loved  her  for  her  genius  ?  " 

*  What  first  struck  me  was  her  exit.      I  suppose  I 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  169 

may  say  that  I  fell  in  love  with  it  at  once.  Then 
she  sang* ;  only  a  verse,  but  it  was  enough.  Later 
she  danced,  and  that,  sir,  was  a  revelation.  I  knew 
the  woman  was  a  genius.  By  the  time  the  panto- 
mime was  in  full  swing,  she  was  the  one  woman  in 
the  world  for  me." 

"And  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  your  genius, 
too  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  be  certain.  You  see  we  were  not  on 
speaking  terms  ;  she  was  so  jealous." 

"  But  that,"  I  said,  "  is  recognized  as  a  sign  of 
love.  No  doubt  she  wanted  you  entirely  to  herself. 
Who  was  the  lady  ?  " 

"What  lady  ?  "  he  asked,  in  surprise. 

"  The  lady  Miss  O'Reilly  was  jealous  of,"  I  said. 

"  I  never  said  she  was  jealous  of  a  lady  ;  though, 
of  course,  she  would  be  jealous  of  the  principal  girl. 
I  spoke  of  myself." 

"  But  how,"  I  questioned,  "  could  she  be  jealous 
unless  she  thought  you  were  paying  attention  to 
some  other  woman." 

"  Oh  !  "  he  said,  with  slow  enlightenment,  "  I  see 
what  you  mean,  but  you  don't  see  what  I  mean.  It 
was  of  me  that  she  was  jealous,  or  rather  of  my 
song.  You  may  not  be  aware  that  in  pantomime 
we  are  allowed  to  choose  our  own  songs.  Well,  it  so 
happened  that  she  and  I  both  wanted  to  sing  the 
same  song.  It  was  an  exquisite  thing,  called, '  Do 
you  think  when  you  wink  ?  '  and  as  I  had  applied  for 


170  18  IT  A  MAN? 

permission  to  sing  it  first  she  was  told  to  select 
something  else.     That  was  why  we  did  not  speak." 

"  But  if  you  loved  her,"  I  said,  speaking,  it  is  true, 
on  a  subject  of  which  I  knew  little,  "you  would 
surely  have  consented  to  waive  your  rights  to  the 
song.    Love,  it  is  said,  delights  in  self-sacrifice." 

"  No  doubt,"  he  admitted,  "  but  you  know  the  lines, 
'  I  could  not  love  you,  dear,  so  much,  loved  I  not 
honor  more.'  Well,  my  honor  was  at  stake,  for  I 
had  promised  my  admirers  in  Dublin — and  they 
were  legion  (see  the  Shamrock  for  January  12,  1883) 
— to  sing  that  song.  And  my  fame  was  at  stake  as 
well  as  my  honor,  for  I  created  quite  a  furore  with 
1  Do  you  think  when  you  wink  ? '  " 

"  Still,"  I  insisted,  "  love  is  all  powerful." 

"  I  admit  it,"  he  answered,  "  and,  what  is  more,  I 
proved  it,  for  after  I  had  sung  the  song  a  week,  I 
transferred  it  to  her." 

"  Did  she  sing  it  as  well  as  you  had  done  ? " 

There  was  a  mighty  struggle  within  him  before 
he  could  reply,  but  when  he  did  speak  he  was  mag- 
nificent. 

"  She  sang  it  far  better  than  I,"  he  said,  firmly, 
and  then  winced. 

"  It  was  a  great  sacrifice  you  made,"  I  said,  gently, 
"  but  doubtless  it  had  its  reward.  Did  she  give  you 
her  hand  in  exchange  for  the  song  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  we  were  not  married  until  a 
year  after  that.      She  was  grateful  to  me,  but  soon 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  171 

we  quarrelled  again.  The  fact  is  that  I  took  a  '  call ' 
which  she  insisted  was  meant  for  her.  She  felt  that 
disappointment  terribly ;  indeed  she  has  not  got 
over  it  yet.  She  cannot  speak  about  it  without 
crying." 

"  You  mean,"  I  said,  u  that  you  years  ago  deprived 
her  of  the  privilege  of  courtesying  to  an  audience  ? 
Surely  she  would  not  let  that  prey  on  her  mind  ?  " 

"  You  don't  understand,"  he  replied,  "  that  fame  is 
food  and  drink  to  an  artist.  It  was  months  before 
she  forgave  me  that,  though  she  is  naturally  the 
most  tender-hearted  creature.  Our  baggage  man 
stole  fifty  pounds  from  her,  and  she  would  not  pros- 
ecute him  because  she  knew  his  sister.  But  you 
see  it  was  not  money  that  I  deprived  her  of,  it  was 
fame." 

"  And  did  you  win  your  way  back  into  her  favor," 
I  asked,  "  by  letting  her  take  a  '  call '  that  was  meant 
for  you !  " 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  several  times  I  determined  to  do 
so,  but  when  the  moment  came  I  could  not  make 
the  sacrifice.  I  spent  about  half  my  salary  in  pres- 
ents to  her,  but,  although  she  took  them,  she  refused 
to  listen  to  any  proposal  of  marriage.  By  this  time 
I  had  confessed  my  love  for  her.  Well,  we  parted, 
and  soon  afterward  I  got  an  engagement  as  chief 
comedian  in  the  '  Powder  Monkey '  Company,  which 
was  then  on  tour.  She  was  playing  chambermaid 
in  it.    Fancy  that  woman  flinging  herself  away  on 


172  IS  IT  A  MAN? 

chambermaids !  I  made  a  big  hit  in  my  part.  The 
Lincoln  Observer  said,  '  Mr.  James  Thorpe,  the  cele- 
brated Jolly  Little  Jim,  created  a ' " 

"  But  about  Miss  O'Eeilly,"  I  asked. 

"  "We  got  on  swimmingly  at  first,"  he  said. 

"  She  had  decided  to  forgive  you  1 H 

"  No,  she  was  stiff  the  first  day,  but  I  put  her  up 
to  a  bit  of  business,  that  used  to  be  encored  nightly, 
and  then  she  accepted  my  offer  of  marriage.  But  a 
week  after  I  had  given  her  the  engagement  ring  she 
returned  it  to  me.     I  don't  blame  her." 

"  You  admit  that  she  had  just  cause  of  complaint 
against  you?" 

"  Yes,  no  woman  who  was  an  artist  could  have 
stood  it.  The  fact  is,  that  one  night  I  took  the  '  up ' 
side  of  her  in  our  comic  love  scene.  That  is  to  say, 
I  had  my  face  to  the  audience,  and  so  she  was  forced 
to  turn  her  back  to  them.  I  had  no  right  to  do  it, 
but  a  sort  of  madness  came  over  me,  and  I  yielded  to 
the  impulse.  As  soon  as  we  had  made  our  exits  she 
flung  the  ring  in  my — ah,  she  gave  me  back  the  ring, 
and,  for  the  remainder  of  the  tour  she  was  not  civil 
to  me.  The  tour  ended  abruptly  ;  indeed,  the  man- 
ager decamped,  owing  us  all  a  fortnight's  salary,  and 
we  were  stranded  in  Bootle  without  money  to  pay 
for  our  lodgings,  not  to  speak  of  our  tickets  back  to 
London.  I  pawned  my  watch  and  sold  my  fur  coat, 
and  shared  what  I  got  for  them  with  her/' 

"  And  so  the  engagement  was  resumed?  " 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  173 

11  No,  no ;  that  was  merely  a  friendly  act,  and  it 
was  accepted  as  such.  The  engagement  was  not  re- 
sumed until  I  got  a  '  par '  about  her  into  a  Sunday 
paper.  But  that  is  the  bell  again.  Ill  tell  you  the 
rest  after  her  death-scene." 


in. 

Miss  O'Eeilly  died  as  slowly  as  the  management 
would  allow  her,  and,  when  she  had  gasped  her  last 
gasp  with  her  hair  down,  Jolly  Little  Jim,  that  was, 
led  the  tears  and  the  cheers,  cried  out,  "  Superb,  by 
Jove  !  that  woman  has  all  the  talents  in  a  nutshell," 
and  strutted  from  the  stalls  in  a  manner  that  invit- 
ed the  rest  of  the  audience  to  follow.  But  every- 
body, save  Mr.  Thorpe  and  myself,  remained  to  see 
the  comic  man  produce  the  missing  will,  and  so  my 
little  friend  and  I  got  the  smoking-room  to  our- 
selves. 

"The  next  time  we  were  on  tour  together,"  he  con- 
tinued, after  I  had  given  the  death-scene  a  testimo- 
nial, "  was  in  '  Letters  of  Fire,'  with  a  real  steam  en- 
gine. I  was  Bill  Body,  the  returned  convict,  and  the 
Bochester  Age  said,  '  Mr.  Thorpe,  who,  as  Jolly  Little 
Jim,  made  such  a '  " 

"  The  engagement  was  resumed  by  this  time  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  I  told  you  the  '  par  '  had  done  that.  However, 
we  had  another  tiff  during  rehearsals,  because  I  got 


174  IS  IT  A  MAN? 

the  epilogue  to  speak.  I  daresay  that  would  have 
led  to  a  rupture  had  not " 

"Had  not  she  loved  you  so  deeply,"  I  suggested. 

"  She  loved  me  fondly,"  he  replied,  "  but  she  loved 
fame  more.  Every  true  genius  does.  No,  the  reason 
she  did  not  break  with  me  then  was  that  I  was  *  on  - 
in  her  great  scene  in  the  fourth  act.  You  see,  as 
chief  comedian  I  had  a  right  to  .a  little  comic  by- 
play in  that  scene,  and  if  I  had  exercised  that  right 
I  should  have  drawn  away  attention  from  herself. 
Thus  I  had  the  whip  hand  of  her.  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  had  I  pressed  the  point  I  could  have 
married  her  during  the  run  of  that  piece." 

"  By  threatening,  if  she  delayed  the  wedding,  to 
introduce  comic  business  into  her  great  scene  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  not,  and  you  are  no  doubt  wonder- 
ing why.  The  fact  is,  I  thought  my  self-denial 
would  soften  her  heart  and  so  bring  about  the  results 
I  was  pining  for.  Perhaps  it  would  have  done  so, 
but,  unfortunately,  '  Letters  of  Fire '  did  not  draw 
(though  a  great  success  artistically),  and  we  had  to 
put  '  London  Slums  '  on  in  its  place.  In  that  piece 
the  leading  juvenile  played  up  to  her  so  well  that 
she  began  to  neglect  me.  I  was  in  despair,  and  so 
not  quite  accountable  for  my  actions.  Nevertheless, 
you  will  think  the  revenge  I  took  as  cold-blooded  as 
it  seemed  to  her.  You  must  understand  that,  though 
our  pieces  were  splendidly  billed,  the  O'Reilly  had 
fifty  chromos  of  herself,  done  at  her  own  expense, 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  175 

and  all  framed.  These  she  got  our  agent  in  ad- 
vance to  exhibit  in  the  best  places  in  the  best  shops, 
and  undoubtedly  they  added  to  her  fame.  They  pre- 
ceded us  by  a  week,  and  so  she  was  always  well- 
known  before  we  opened  anywhere.  Well,  sir,  I  got 
fifty  chromos  of  myself  framed,  and  ten  days  before 
we  were  due  at  Sheffield  I  had  them  put  into  fifty 
barbers'  shops  there. 

"  Why  barbers'  shops  ?  "  I  interposed. 

"Because  they  are  most  seen  and  discussed 
there,"  he  explained.  "It  comes  natural  to  a  man 
when  he  is  being  shaved  to  talk  about  what  is  on  at 
the  theatres.  I  can't  say  why  that  is  so,  but  so  it  is. 
Perhaps  one  reason  is  that  barbers  are  nearly  always 
enthusiasts  on  matters  of  art.  Well,  if  there  is  a 
good  chromo  in  the  shop,  of  course  it  comes  in  for 
its  share  of  discussion,  and  the  barber  tells  what 
parts  you  have  played  before,  and  so  on.  It  is  a 
great  help.  However,  the  O'Reilly  no  sooner  heard 
what  I  had  done  than  she  told  me  all  was  over  be- 
tween us." 

"  Still,"  I  said,  "  the  barbers  would  have  had  room 
for  her  pictures  as  well  as  for  yours." 

"I  got  the  best  places,"  he  answered,  "and  there 
is  this,  too,  to  consider.  The  more  chromos  there 
are  to  look  at,  the  less  attention  does  any  particu- 
lar one  get;  and  she  held  that  if  I  loved  her  truly 
I  would  not  have  stepped  in,  as  it  were,  between  her 
and  the  public.     She  did  not  get  a  reception  that 


176  IS  IT  A  MAN? 

opening  night  at  Sheffield,  and,  of  course,  she  gave 
me  the  blame.     It  seriously  affected  her  health." 

"  But  you  made  that  quarrel  up  ? " 

"  Not  for  three  weeks.  Then  she  gave  in.  Instead 
of  my  going  to  her,  she  came  to  me  and  offered  to 
renew  the  engagement  if  I  would  withdraw  my 
chromos." 

"  Which  you  did  gladly,  of  course !  " 

"  I  took  a  night  to  think  of  it.  You  who  are  not 
an  artist  cannot  conceive  how  I  loved  my  chromos. 
Did  I  tell  you  that  I  had  printed  beneath  them 
1  Yours  very  sincerely,  Jolly  Little  Jim  ? '  However, 
I  did  yield  to  her  wishes,  and  we  were  to  be  married 
at  Newcastle,  when  a  terrible  thing  happened.  We 
have  now  come  to  the  turning-point  of  my  life.  At 
Newcastle,  sir,  I  made  my  last  appearance  on  the 
stage." 

Mr.  Thorpe  turned  his  face  from  me  until  he  re- 
covered command  of  it.     Then  he  resumed. 

"  Two  days  before  the  marriage  was  to  take  place 
a  Newcastle  paper  slated  her  and  praised  me.  It 
said,  'Miss  O'Beilly  ought  to  take  a  page  out  of 
Mr.  Thorpe's  book.  She  should  learn  from  him  that 
the  action  should  suit  the  word,  not  precede  it.  She 
should  note  his  facial  expression,  which  is  comedy  in 
picture,  and  control  her  own  tendency  to  let  her  face 
look  after  itself.  She  should  take  note  of  his  clear 
pronunciation  and  model  her  somewhat  snappy  de- 
livery on  it.'    Sir,  I  read  that  notice  with  mixed 


IS  IT  A  MAN?  177 

feelings.  As  an  artist  I  could  not  but  delight  in  its 
complimentary  references  to  myself,  but  as  a  lover  I 
dreaded  its  effect  on  the  O'Eeilly.  After  breakfast 
I  went  to  call  on  her  at  her  lodgings,  and  happening 
to  pass  a  number  of  news-shops  on  the  way  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  to  buy  at  each  a  paper 
with  the  notice.  I  concealed  the  papers  about  my 
person,  and  as  I  approached  her  door  I  tried  to  look 
downcast.  But  I  fear  my  step  was  springy.  Per- 
haps she  saw  me  from  her  window.  At  all  events 
her  landlady  informed  me  that  Miss  O'Eeilly  de- 
clined to  see  me.  '  Here  is  something  I  was  told  to 
give  you,'  said  the  woman,  handing  me  a  pill-box. 
It  contained  the  ring  !  I  compelled  the  O'Eeilly  to 
listen  to  me  that  night  at  the  theatre,  and  she  al- 
lowed that  I  was  not  to  blame  for  the  notice.  But 
she  pointed  out  that  there  could  be  no  chance  of 
happiness  for  a  husband  and  wife  whose  interests 
were  opposed,  and  I  saw  that  it  was  true.  I  walked 
about  the  streets  of  Newcastle  all  that  night,  such 
was  my  misery,  such  the  struggle  in  my  breast  be- 
tween love  and  fame.  Well,  sir,  love  conquered,  as 
it  never  could  have  conquered  her,  for  she  was  a 
great  artist,  and  I  only  a  small  one,  though  the 
Basingstoke  Magpie  said  of  me,  '  The  irresistibly  droll 

Mr.  Thorpe,  better  known  as '  " 

"The  play  will  end  in  a  minute,"  I  said;  "how 
did  you  win  her !  * 

"  I  offered,"  he  replied,  with  emotion,  "  to  give  up 
12 


178  IS  IT  A  MAN? 

my  profession  and  devote  myself  to  furthering  her 
fame." 

"  And  to  live  on  her  ? "  I  said,  aghast. 

"You  who  do  not  understand  art  may  put  it  in 
that  way,"  he  replied,  "  but  she  realized  the  sacrifice 
I  was  making  for  her  sake  and  doubted  my  love  no 
longer.  Was  it  nothing,  sir,  to  give  up  my  fame,  to 
give  up  the  name  I  was  known  by  all  over  England 
(as  the  Torquay  Chat  said),  and  sink  to  the  level  of 
those  who  have  never  been  mentioned  in  the  pa- 
pers !  Why,  you  yourself  had  forgotten  the  famous 
Jolly  Little  Jim." 

His  voice  was  inexpressibly  mournful,  and  I  felt 
that  I  really  had  been  listening  to  a  love  romance. 
The  last  three  hours,  too,  had  shown  me  that  Mr. 
Thorpe  was  responsible  for  some  of  the  fame  of  his 
wife. 

"The  management,"  he  went  on,  bravely,  "al- 
lowed me  to  retire  without  the  usual  fortnight's 
notice,  and  so  the  marriage  took  place  on  the  day 
we  had  previously  arranged  for  it." 

"  Had  you  a  pleasant  honeymoon  VI  asked. 

"In  one  sense,"  he  replied,  "we  had  no  honey- 
moon, for  she  played  that  night  as  usual ;  but  in 
another  sense  it  has  been  a  honeymoon  ever  since, 
for  we  have  the  same  interests,  the  same  joys,  the 
same  sorrows." 

"That  is  to  say,  you  have  both  only  her  fame 
to  think  of  now?    May  I  ask,  did  she,  for  whom 


18  IT  A  MAFf  179 

you  made  such  a  sacrifice,  make  any  sacrifice  for 
you?" 

"  She  did,  indeed,"  he  answered.  "  For  four  weeks 
she  let  her  name  be  printed  in  the  bills  thus :  '  Miss 
O'Reilly  (Mrs.  James  Thorpe),'  though  to  have  it 
known  by  the  public  that  she  is  married  is  against 
an  actress." 

"  And  you  are  happy  in  your  new  occupation  ?  " 

"Very  happy,"  he  answered,  cheerfully,  "and 
very  proud."  Then  with  a  heavy  sigh  he  added, 
"But  I  wish  people  would  remember  Jolly  Little 
Jim." 

There  was  really  something  pathetic  about  the 
man ;  but  before  I  could  tell  a  lie  and  say  that  I 
now  remembered  Jolly  Little  Jim  perfectly,  the 
audience  began  to  applaud,  and  Mr.  Thorpe,  thrust- 
ing some  bills  into  my  hands,  hurried  back  to  the 
stalls  to  shout  "  O'Eeilly." 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  met  him  again,  nor  thought 
of  him,  until  I  found  myself  at  his  grave.  This  is 
the  inscription  on  the  tombstone : 

ERECTED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

JAMES  THORPE, 

AGED  38, 
BY  HIS  SORROWING  WIFE, 

THE  FAMOUS  MAY  O'REILLY 

(Of  the  principal  theatres). 


180  18  IT  A  MAN? 

Poor  Mr.  Thorpe !    There  was  something  lovable 
about  him.     The  O'Keilly  might  have  put  on  the 
'  tombstone :  "  Better  known  as  Jolly  Little  Jim."    It 
would  have  gratified  him. 


A   WOODLAND    PATH. 

The  rose-bush  that  taps  on  my  window  at  night, 
as  if  entreating  me  to  let  it  in  out  of  the  cold,  hangs 
motionless  to-day,  a  drop  of  water  on  the  tips  of 
many  of  its  leaves.  The  paling  a  few  yards  away  is 
a  dank  green,  on  which  I  could  draw  pictures  with 
a  stick.  On  the  dyke  six  sparrows— no,  seven,  for 
another  has  arrived — sit  in  a  row,  at  their  wits'  end 
what  to  do  next.  A  black  hen  seems  to  have  lost 
something  in  the  garden.  Fifty  yards  ahead  the 
fields  fade  into  mist. 

But  it  is  not  raining,  so  let  us  go  into  the  wood. 
The  high  road  is  sloppy  and  has  lost  its  grip.  To 
jump  from  side  to  side  of  it  in  search  of  hard  places 
is  only  to  send  the  wood  farther  away.  We  must 
plod  on  doggedly,  seeing  to  it  that  we  do  not  leave 
our  boots  in  the  mud. 

Here  is  the  wood,  with  only  a  ditch  and  a  dyke 
between  it  and  you.  The  path  begins,  like  so  many 
of  its  kind,  with  a  gap  in  the  dyke  that  the  farmer 
fills  now  and  again  with  whins.  Some  say  that 
walking  in  a  wood  stifles  them,  but  even  in  summer 
I  prefer  it  to  fields  and  commons,  and  in  winter  it 
draws  me  out-of-doors,  despite  the  muddy  highway. 


182  A   WOODLAND  PATH. 

When  the  rest  of  the  world  hereabouts  is  carpeted 
with  mud,  the  path  through  the  wood  is  hard  and 
springy,  in  most  parts  green,  with  here  and  there  a 
little  morass  that  I  can  walk  around.  If  we  plunged 
into  that  deceptive  grass  we  would  squirt  up  water 
into  our  faces.  Here  is  a  lump  of  snow  that  has 
forgotten  to  go  with  the  thaw,  and  we  even  come 
to  a  pool  with  ice  on  it.  Over  the  ice  is  a  film  of 
water.  Push  your  stick  into  the  pool,  and  the  ice 
breaks  without  a  sound.  The  crispness  has  gone 
from  it,  and  if  we  take  it  in  our  hands  pieces  fall 
off  and  are  water  almost  as  soon  as  they  touch  the 
grass. 

The  path  does  not  make  the  most  of  the  wood  by 
twisting  through  it.  It  grew  under  the  feet  of  per- 
sons anxious  to  reach  their  destination ;  as  I  under- 
stand, they  used  to  walk  briskly  along  the  path  with 
milk-cans  in  their  hands.  The  ploughmen  delve 
through  it  heavily  still,  and  in  summer  boys  are  to 
be  seen.  They  are  not,  however,  to  be  met  with. 
We  hear  in  the  distance  the  cry  of  one  boy  to  an- 
other, and  think  as  little  of  it  as  though  we  were  lis- 
tening to  the  mavis,  for  boys  and  girls  are  equally 
at  home  in  woods,  and  I  would  drive  neither  from 
them.  But,  like  the  mavis,  the  boy  promptly  hops  out 
of  sight,  regarding  us  as  intruders,  and  watching  us 
furtively  from  behind  trees.  The  birds,  I  believe, 
have  the  same  opinion  of  us,  but  look  on  boys  as 
larger  birds  than  themselves,  not  to  be  trusted,  but 


"      A    WOODLAND  PATH.  183 

with  a  right  to  be  there.  In  summer  I  creep  upon 
the  boys,  and  sink  into  the  heather  where  I  can  ob- 
serve them  unseen.  They  have  sharp  ears,  and  if  I 
tread  on  a  brittle  twig  I  am  discovered.  One  gives 
a  shrill  cry,  another  whistles,  and  a  third  drops  from 
his  tree  like  an  apple.  They  pick  up  their  ragged 
jackets,  and  in  a  moment  I  am  alone  in  the  wood. 
They  seem  to  sink  into  the  ground,  and  I,  the  enemy, 
am  left  behind.  But  at  times  I  succeed  in  approach- 
ing within  earshot ;  then  I  see  them  at  games  in  no 
way  dissimilar  to  those  of  monkeys,  and  quite  as 
mischievous.  Or  they  are  here  on  business,  after  a 
nest.  One  climbs  on  to  the  back  of  the  other  as  the 
first  step  toward  ascending  the  tree,  then  the  sup- 
port gives  way,  and  the  climber  tumbles  to  the 
ground  on  his  head.  He  sits  there  dazed  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then,  without  a  word,  the  ascending  be- 
gins again.  This  time  the  little  villain  is  suc- 
cessful. He  disappears  among  the  branches, 
and  by  and  by  slides  down  the  trunk  with  three  or 
four  eggs  in  his  mouth.  If  he  comes  whack  upon 
the  ground  the  eggs  break  in  his  mouth,  and  he 
screams  reproaches  at  his  friend.  But  if  all  goes 
well,  they  search  for  a  thorn  with  which  to  make 
holes  in  their  spoil.  They  blow  the  eggs,  put  them 
in  their  caps,  and  saunter  home  unconscious  of  their 
torn  sleeves.  Care  has  found  no  resting-place  in 
their  buoyant  hearts  yet,  and  the  holes  and  rents  in 
their  ragged  garments  are  mended  by  hands,  and 


184  A    WOODLAND  PATH. 

scanned  tenderly  by  eyes,  learned  in  love's  ways,  if 
careworn  and  tired. 

But  boys  come  seldom  into  the  wood  at  this  time 
of  year,  and  I  am  looking  for  squirrels.  That  bun- 
dle of  firewood  resting-  against  a  tree  is  a  likely 
place,  so  you  may  shove  your  stick  into  it.  Squirrels 
may  be  anywhere,  however,  and  all  we  are  sure  of 
is  that  they  will  come  upon  us  suddenly.  Not  one 
is  to  be  seen  from  here,  but  it  is  a  capital  place  to 
stop  a  moment  at  if  you  would  carry  away  in  your 
mind  a  fair  sample  of  the  wood.  The  trees  are 
nearly  all  pines  and  beeches,  two  kinds  that  grow 
side  by  side,  though  they  have  nothing  in  common. 
All  summer  the  beeches  in  their  gay  dress  laugh  at 
the  sombre  pines.  But  with  winter  the  beeches  are 
stripped  bare  in  a  few  nights,  and  then  the  pine  can 
give  them  a  piece  of  its  mind.  Some  of  us  are 
beeches  that  forget  the  winter  while  we  can  be  gay 
in  summer,  and  others  are  pines,  who  think  less  of 
show  than  wear.  But  I  would  rather  be  a  beech 
than  a  pine,  and  so  know  the  extremes  of  delight 
and  despair.  The  children  of  the  beech  have  kept 
their  leaves  longer  than  their  mother.  They  are 
mere  twigs  sprouting  up  among  the  grass,  and  the 
wind  has  not  been  able  to  get  down  to  them.  But 
their  leaves  are  a  brown-red,  only  warm  when  the 
sun  shines  on  them,  and  to-day  there  is  no  sun. 
The  grass  is  green,  with  tufts  of  hay  among  it ;  and 
if  we  leave  the  path  we  shall  soon  stumble  over 


A   WOODLAND  BATH.  .  185 

heather  roots.  Those  dark  green  spots  in  the  dis- 
tance are  broom,  but  they  are  too  dark  in  color  to 
show  well  in  winter  in  a  pine-wood. 

■No,  don't  stone  him;  stand  quietly,  and  watch. 
We  have,  if  will  be  seen,  come  upon  a  squirrel.  The 
mildest  of  men  looks  for  a  stone  when  he  sees  a 
squirrel  laughing  at  him  or  a  bottle  bobbing  up  and 
down  in  the  water.  But,  of  course,  if  you  did  strike 
the  squirrel — not  that  I  believe  you  could  do  so — 
you  would  go  home  distressed,  all  pleasure  in  the 
walk  lost.  Besides,  if  you  frighten  the  squirrel,  he 
will  simply  climb  out  of  sight;  while  if  we  only 
arouse  his  suspicions,  he  may  take  us  for  a  walk. 
See,  he  has  leaped  to  the  beech ;  now  he  is  on  the 
fir ;  now  where  is  he  !  There,  two  trees  ahead.  The 
squirrel,  once  he  has  set  off  in  a  straight  line,  will 
continue  on  it  though  nature  be  against  him.  He 
runs  along  the  trees.  Though  I  have  seen  the 
squirrel  miss  his  jump,  I  never  saw  him  fall  to 
the  ground.  Ninety-nine  times  in  a  hundred  he 
leaps  correctly,  dropping  on  the  exact  centre  of 
the  branch,  and  running  along  it  without  a  pause. 
When  he  is  out  in  his  reckoning,  he  always  succeeds 
in  catching  at  some  other  branch.  We  walk  at  an 
ordinary  pace  beneath  and  keep  up  with  him,  for  he 
never  stops,  except  for  a  moment  now  and  again  to 
cock  his  head  at  us.  If  we  are  coming,  he  is  willing 
to  go  on ;  but  if  not,  he  will  rest.  My  reason  for 
following  him  still  is  that  I  want  to  see  how  he  will 


186  A   WOODLAND  PATH. 

act  when  he  comes  to  the  end  of  the  wood.  But  he 
has  often  raced  me  to  this  point  before,  and  I  can 
guess  what  he  will  do.  One  would  expect  him  to 
turn  back,  or  to  skurry  off  to  the  right  or  left ;  but 
no,  he  goes  straight  on,  and  when  he  reaches  the 
last  tree  never  hesitates  a  moment  as  to  what  he 
ought  to  do  next.  He  slides  down  the  trunk  at  the 
other  side  from  you,  darts  across  the  road,  and  is 
up  a  tree  again,  asking  if  you  have  had  enough  of  it. 
He  has  made  us  stray  from  the  path  at  all  events, 
and  our  boots  are  beginning  to  chirp.  If  we  follow 
the  squirrel  farther  we  shall  probably  slip  on  the 
roots  of  trees  to  which  the  rain  has  given  a  polish. 
That  was  not  rain  you  felt  just  now ;  it  was  only  a 
drop  from  a  leaf.  But  the  rain  will  be  on  before  we 
reach  home. 


WOMAN  AND  THE    PRESS. 

Fortunately  for  the  ladies  who  are  now  making 
or  half  making  a  livelihood  by  journalism,  the  rank 
and  file  of  them  are  not  to  be  measured  by  the  noto- 
rieties. Many  lady- journalists  whose  names  are  in 
no  one's  mouth  are  already  proving  that  the  press 
affords  a  calling  in  every  way  as  honorable  for  them 
as  for  men.  Until  the  other  day  the  opinion  was  al- 
most universal  in  this  country  that  a  lady  could  not 
earn  her  living  modestly  unless  she  followed  some 
down-trodden  profession  such  as  that  of  the  gover- 
ness, in  which  she  retained  her  modesty  because  she 
could  not  become  brazen  at  the  salary.  With  inde- 
pendence her  womanliness  would  take  flight.  These 
chains  of  prejudice  are  breaking,  and  by  the  begin- 
ning of  next  century  we  shall  doubtless  find  that  the 
lady -journalist,  by  the  example  of  her  life,  has  done 
something  to  break  them.  Even  those  who  sigh 
over  the  lady -politician,  or  put  out  their  tongue  (un- 
invited) to  the  lady-doctor,  or  shake  their  heads  at 
the  actress,  will  be  able  to  condemn  journalism  as  an 
unwomanly  profession  because  of  its  publicity.  The 
journalism  best  suited  to  ladies  can  be  done  at  home 
and  anonymously,  which  is  one  of  its  advantages. 


188  WOMAN  AND  THE  PRESS. 

As  it  happens,  however — though  this  is  only  an  ac- 
cident of  the  moment — the  most  prominent  lady 
journalists  are  doing  their  best  to  weaken  these 
arguments  by  making  themselves  as  noisy  as  street 
organs. 

The  New  Journalism  has  discovered  that  some  of 
the  ladies  whom  it  finds  useful  are  prepared  to  "  go 
a  considerable  length."  Here  is  this  Miss  Nellie 
Something  of  America,  for  instance ;  one  of  a  type 
that  has  sprung  up  since  Martin  Chuzzlewit  was 
requested  to  gaze  upon  the  celebrated  characters  of 
that  country.  Miss  Nellie  has  been  shot  round  the 
world  by  a  New  York  paper,  which  holds — perhaps 
rightly — that  because  she  has  beaten  Jules  Verne's 
"  record,"  an  American  lady  has  gone  around  the 
world  in  less  than  eighty  days.  Sensible  people, 
however — those  who  can  keep  their  heads  when 
a  hero  goes  over  Niagara  in  a  barrel,  and  see  that 
the  barrel  only  is  worthy  of  admiration — will  agree 
that  if  this  is  the  kind  of  thing  expected  of  lady 
journalists,  journalism  is  scarcely  a  sphere  for  their 
sisters.  Miss  Nellie,  of  course,  so  far  as  we  on  this 
side  know,  is  not  a  journalist  at  all.  She  has  been 
behaving  as  a  music-hall  "  artiste  "  and  is  only  com- 
parable to  the  lady  who  walks  the  tight-rope  or  ex- 
cels at  "  high-kicking."  Like  these,  her  rivals,  she 
is  very  plucky,  and  no  more  need  be  said  of  her. 
Scores  of  high -kickers  and  male-impersonators  in 
this  country  are  ready  to  start  round  the  world  to- 


WOMAN  AND   THE  PRESS.  189 

morrow  "  in  costume "  in  the  attempt  to  beat  Miss 
Nellie's  record,  if  our  New  Journalism  will  send 
them.  But,  fortunately,  the  New  Journalism  of  this 
country  has  not  as  yet  been  a  financial  success. 

Nevertheless,  whatsoever  is  specially  objection- 
able in  the  ways  of  the  New  Journalism  ladies  can 
be  found  to  do.  It  is  well  known  that  they  are  the 
best  interviewers,  because  they  can  go  where  men 
are  not  admitted  and  ask  questions  at  which  even 
the  male  interviewer  would  blush.  The  celebrity 
into  whose  study  the  lady  interviewer  pushes  her 
way  is  in  an  awkward  position.  It  is  quite  within 
his  right  to  tell  his  servants  to  remove  the  male  in- 
terviewer with  their  feet ;  but  the  lady  is  here,  and 
the  question  is  how  to  get  her  out.  How  did  she 
get  in  ?  Probably  by  pretending  to  be  somebody 
else,  if  indeed  she  has  not  tripped  in  behind  some 
visitor.  She  may  have  been  despatched  to  the  work 
after  the  other  sex  has  failed  to  gain  an  entrance, 
and  she  is  determined  to  succeed.  She  may  wait 
calmly  for  hours  until  she  sees  the  door  ajar.  If  her 
victim  is  a  lawyer  she  will  take  the  name  of  one  of 
his  clients ;  if  a  doctor  she  will  call  herself  a  pa- 
tient ;  if  a  politician  she  pretends  to  be  the  wife  of 
his  agent.  In  short,  there  is  no  lie  to  which  she 
will  not  resort,  and  her  conscience  is  so  dead  that 
she  boasts  of  her  methods  when  they  have  suc- 
ceeded. Now  she  has  borne  down  on  her  victim, 
and  he  tells  her  politely  that  he  must  decline  to  be 


190  WOMAN  AND   THE  PRESS. 

interviewed.  She  then  takes  a  chair  and  insists  on  in- 
terviewing him.  His  wisest  course  is  not  to  answer 
any  question  ;  but  it  is  a  course  not  easy  to  pursue, 
for  she  is  an  adept  at  exasperating.  Even  if  he  is 
dumb  to  her  she  examines  the  room.  She  "  takes 
in "  the  furniture,  and  her  "  host's "  dress,  and 
pounces  on  the  papers  that  litter  his  writing-table. 
On  her  way  out  she  may  have  the  good  fortune  to  see 
her  victim's  little  boy,  and  him  she  at  once  cross- 
examines.  The  servants  are  also  pressed.  It  is 
the  lady  interviewers  who  ask  their  victim  whether 
it  be  true  that  he  is  applying  for  a  divorce,  and  what 
his  proof  is,  and  which  is  the  stool  his  wife  flung  at 
him.  This  would  read  like  exaggeration  were  it  not 
notorious  that  the  New  Journalism  is  ever  on  the 
scent  of  scandals,  and  that  the  ladies  are  its  best 
servants. 

Less  discreditable  to  their  calling  are  the  lady- 
journalists  who  frequent  "  private  views  "  and  "  first 
nights/'  in  order  to  say  at  great  length  who  were 
present  and  what  they  wore.  This  sort  of  thing  is 
carried  by  some  of  them  to  impertinence  ;  but  they 
are  at  least  comparatively  harmless,  and  they  look 
so  happy  while  plying  their  vocation  that  it  would 
be  cruel  to  frown  at  them.  They  provide  gossip  for 
the  society  journals  and  such  x)rovincial  papers  as 
fill  their  London  letter  with  personalities.  The 
personalities  are  usually  inaccurate,  but,  like  quack 
pills,  do  no  perceptible  harm.     Of    some    of  the 


WOMAN  AND   THE  PRESS.  191 

ladies,  too,  it  may  be  said  that  they  write  capital 
letters — usually  in  weekly  journals — for  their  own 
sex. 

But  journalism  offers  an  excellent  profession  for 
ladies  who  do  not  want  either  to  gossip  or  inter- 
view or  be  reporters.  All  the  leading  papers  now- 
adays are  to  some  extent  magazines,  and  devote 
space  to  short  leaders  or  essays  on  social,  literary, 
or  artistic  subjects.  As  it  is,  a  number  of  these  are 
written  by  ladies,  and  no  doubt  ladies  will  write 
more  of  them  in  future.  Many  men  of  some  mark 
write  little  else,  and  find  the  work  pleasant.  It  can 
be  done  anywhere,  and  the  writer  is  his  own  master. 
Editors  have  not  yet  educated  themselves  up  to  the 
point  of  having  women  on  their  night-staff,  and 
there  is  in  newspaper  offices  a  prejudice — if  such  it 
should  be  called — against  "  petticoats."  But  any 
editor  not  a  ninny  is  as  willing  to  print  articles 
from  the  outside  by  women  as  by  men,  and  judges 
these  articles  entirely  by  their  merit.  Women  with 
some  literary  faculty  have  thus  a  lucrative  profes- 
sion upon  which  they  can  enter  any  day  they  choose 
with  the  certainty  that  they  are  not  handicapped 
by  their  sex.  There  are  thousands  of  subjects  ready 
to  their  hands,  and  they  can  do  the  work  when  and 
where  they  like. 


A  PLEA  FOE  SMALLER  BOOKS. 

An  author  advises  us  to  publish  weekly  a  list  of 
selected  books,  for  which  he  proposes  the  title, 
"  Books  to  Borrow."  The  British  public,  he  thinks, 
is  still  wondering  what  Mr.  Mark  Pattison  meant  by- 
saying  that  men,  to  respect  themselves,  must  own 
at  least  a  thousand  volumes.  Not  only  does  the 
public  shun  the  bookseller;  like  the  Argyllshire 
dairymaid,  who  stipulates  that  she  shall  not  dine  on 
salmon  oftener  than  four  times  a  week,  it  has  be- 
come fastidious,  and  will  not  now  even  borrow 
lightly.  It  must  have  its  library  fiction  hot  from 
the  press,  as  if  novels,  like  milk,  turned  sour  with 
keeping ;  and  it  declines  to  gorge  on  memoirs  that 
are  not  as  fashionable  as  the  last  thing  in  bonnets. 
Mr.  Macniven  must  not  send  "  Pride  and  Prejudice  " 
to  his  subscribers,  the  Misses  Insatiable — they  know 
it  is  not  new  by  the  cover.  Messrs.  Douglas  & 
Foulis  will  not  impose  upon  Mrs.  Uptodate  with  the 
"  Life  of  Macaulay,"  which  is  an  achievement,  when 
she  can  have  Mr.  Hatton's  "  Toole,"  which  may  be 
mostly  drivel,  but  was  only  issued  yesterday. 
Such,  we  must  agree  with  our  cynical  novelist,  are 
among  the  ways  of  the  "  reading  public,"  which,  how- 


A  PLEA  FOR  SMALLER  BOOKS.  193 

ever,  seldom  buys,  borrows,  or  gets  from  the  library 
so  long  as  newspapers  or  magazines  will  condense 
the  new  tome  into  an  article.  Authors  and  pub- 
lishers complain,  but  the  public  is  not  the  only 
sinner.  The  bane  of  British  literature  at  present  is 
its  bulk.  The  law  of  the  land  is  as  much  that 
novels  should  be  in  three  volumes  as  that  there 
must  be  a  public-house  at  every  street-corner.  "  924 
pages  "  is  advertised  as  a  recommendation.  As  for 
the  biographies  of  Undistinguished  Persons  and  the 
Eeminiscences  of  Men  I  Have  Known  for  Five  Min- 
utes, they  seem  to  be  manufactured  for  sale  by 
weight.  Like  the  epistles  Gabrielissime  Harvey  sent 
to  Tom  Nash,  they  would  break  the  wheels  of  a 
carrier's  cart,  and  could  be  hurled  forth  at  arm's- 
length  for  a  wager.  If  the  public  is  to  keep  up  with 
current  literature  it  must  take  all  the  short  cuts. 
We  need  a  poet  to  sing  the  praises  of  little  books. 

Our  literature  lies  crushed  beneath  its  load  of 
"padding."  Take  the  novelists— the  four-in-hand 
popular  novelists,  most  prolific  of  writers,  if  we  ex- 
cept the  book-makers  who  cook  with  other  men's 
brains.  The  critic,  with  spade,  buries  rows  of  new 
novelists  weekly.  They  may  have  merit,  but  he 
gazes  at  the  piles  of  three-volumes  until  his  one 
ambition  is  to  make  them  corpses.  Novelists  who 
have  refused  to  die  in  the  bud  he  leaves  to  wither 
in  flower.     They  are  nearly   all  able,  entertaining 

writers ;  but  fiction  is  their  means  of  livelihood,  and 
13 


194      A  PLEA  FOE  SMALLER  BOOKS. 

were  they  to  cram  all  their  best  into  one  book  they 
would  soon  be  empty.  They  must  not  be  too  prod- 
igal of  either  character  or  plot,  and  consequently 
their  story  would  generally  reach  its  natural  end  in 
a  single  volume.  Having  to  run  three  times  round 
the  course,  however,  instead  of  once,  they  must  not 
"  spurt  "  at  the  start.  Padding  is  of  various  merits 
and  many  kinds.  We  have  a  distinguished  novelist 
who  can  become  a  landscape  painter  by  sending 
anyone  of  his  characters  to  the  window.  There  is 
philosophical  padding,  which  is  usually  the  cheapest 
of  all.  When  a  lady-novelist  thinks  she  is  getting 
along  too  quickly  she  arranges  for  another  ball,  or 
sends  Claude  and  Emmeline  back  to  the  conserv- 
atory. The  smoking-room,  with  cigars  and  gossip, 
or  what  they  think  of  the  situation  in  the  kitchen, 
is  another  reserve  that  may  be  drawn  upon ;  and 
there  are  hardened  novelists  who  do  not  hesitate  to 
write  "  Retrospective  "  at  the  head  of  several  chap- 
ters in  volume  two.  Thus  novels  become  paper 
bags  blown  out  with  wind.  Often  it  is  cleverly 
done,  but  at  its  best  the  sand  can  be  detected  in 
the  sugar ;  and  at  its  second-best,  which  is  not  the 
lowest  degree  of  comparison,  it  is  an  attempt  to 
stock  a  whole  house  with  the  drawing-room  fur- 
niture. It  spoils  the  style  of  the  rare  writer  who 
has  any.  Probably  the  novels  of  the  present  year 
that  do  not  suffer  from  length  could  be  counted  on 
the  fingers  of  a  one-armed  man.    Mr.  Stevenson  is  a 


A  PLEA  FOR  SMALLER  BOOKS.  195 

brave  exception  to  the  rule  ;  but  the  shilling  novels, 
now  so  popular,  being  mostly  refuse,  need  not  be 
considered.  It  remains  a  fact  that  few  novels  pub- 
lished nowadays  are  not  at  least  twice  as  long  as 
"  Silas  Marner."  One  of  the  fine  things  to  remem- 
ber about  George  Eliot  is  that  she  was  offered  a 
tempting  sum  to  lengthen  one  of  her  books,  and 
declined  it. 

Curiously,  while  all  see  what  is  wrong,  no  one  pro- 
poses a  remedy.  The  public  blames  the  author,  the 
author  the  publisher,  the  publisher  the  public ;  but 
they  are  as  helpless  as  the  lady  who  complained  of 
the  heat,  yet  never  thought  of  sitting  further  away 
from  the  fire.  It  is  a  commercial  question.  The 
authors,  who  are  no  doubt  in  most  cases  their  own 
severe  critics,  say  that  the  publishers  look  askance 
at  one  volume.  The  publishers  say  they  must  pro- 
duce what  pays.  Yet  the  public  is  all  the  time  point- 
ing out  that  it  cannot  pay,  and  its  shelves  show  that 
it  does  not.  In  short,  the  publisher's  appeal  is  to  the 
library,  which  prefers  books  to  be  in  several  volumes, 
thus  tempting  the  public  to  become  heavy  sub- 
scribers. The  publisher  flourishes  moderately  with- 
out much  risk  under  this  arrangement,  for  the 
libraries  take  as  many  copies  of  an  average  book  as 
will  at  least  secure  him  against  loss.  He  also  bears 
in  mind  that  a  twenty-shilling  book's  cost  of  pro- 
duction may  be  little  more  than  that  of  a  six-shilling 
book.     To  appeal  direct  to  the  public  with  cheap 


196      A  PLEA  FOR  SMALLER  BOOKS. 

single  volumes  might  mean  a  much  greater  sale,  but 
it  would  be  more  risky.  The  gain  to  literature 
would  be  certain.  Many  books  which  now  get  a 
library  circulation  would  never  be  printed,  and  the 
better  books  would  drop  the  ballast  that  now  keeps 
them  trailing  to  earth,  for  padding  would  be  at  a 
discount.  As  it  is,  books  of  merit,  when  offered, 
years  after  their  first  publication,  in  one  volume, 
have  a  considerable  sale,  which  would  doubtless 
have  been  much  greater  had  they  been  published 
originally  at  the  same  price,  and  without  their 
superfluous  chapters.  We  ought  to  take  a  lesson 
from  France.  With  so  many  books  to  choose  be- 
tween, we  have  not  the  appetite  of  the  boy  at  a 
public  dinner,  who,  when  told  by  his  father  to  eat 
for  to-morrow  and  the  next  day,  replied  that  he  must 
first  eat  for  yesterday  and  the  day  before.  The 
public  should  be  denied  no  opportunity  of  becoming 
its  own  critic.  As  it  passes  saner  judgments,  the 
standard  of  contemporary  literature  will  rise. 


BOYS'  BOOKS :    THEIR  GLORIFICA- 
TION. 

Those  of  us  who  were  boys  not  so  very  long  ago 
rather  resent  the  knowledge  that  our  favorite  au- 
thors are  now  writing  for  another  generation.  "We 
used  to  conceive  them  very  old  fellows,  who  would 
die  off  as  we  grew  up  ;  yet  here  is  Ballantyne  with 
another  book  for  boys  this  winter,  and  as  for  Hope, 
I  met  him  lately,  hardly  middle-aged  yet.  I  used 
to  think  that  Hope  (or  else  Ballantyne  or  Marryat) 
ought  to  be  made  King  of  England,  and  after  over  a 
dozen  years  I  found  I  remember  his  "  My  School- 
boy Friends"  better  than  he  did  himself.  He 
couldn't  remember  the  two  tutors,  Paddy  "William- 
son and  Vials,  and  when  I  said  there  were  two  boys 
called  Abbing  and  Lessing  at  Whiteminster,  which 
is  the  school  he  writes  about,  he  said,  rather  indif- 
ferently, "  very  likely."  I  would  let  no  other  man 
talk  slightingly  of  that  book,  which  is  in  some 
ways  more  delightful  than  "  Tom  Brown's  School- 
days." When  the  boys  at  the  school  at  which 
I  looked  in  now  and  then  should  have  been  fol- 
lowing Balbus  building  his  eternal  walls,  or  with 
Oaius  flying  from  the  city,  they  were  sitting  on  a 


198     BOYS'   BOOKS:    THEIR   GLORIFICATION. 

wall  frequently,  arguing  the  question  whether  Mr. 
Hope  did  right  in  killing  off  Harry  Kennedy.  I 
always  thought  that  young-ladyish,  and  I  am  glad 
to  know  now  that  the  author  thinks  so  too.  "  My 
Schoolboy  Friends  "  was  one  of  his  earliest  efforts, 
and  he  feared  breaking  away  altogether  from 
tradition,  so  he  introduced  this  little  bit  of  senti- 
ment. The  success  of  Farrar's  "  Eric "  and  "  St. 
Winifred's  "  made  him  take  his  one  false  step.  To 
speak  disrespectfully  of  "  Eric  "  is  to  be  bold ;  for 
are  there  not  thousands  of  ladies,  and  girls  who 
will  be  ladies  shortly,  that  "  love  "  the  book  ?  Hun- 
dreds of  boys'  books  have  been  written  for  girls, 
and  Farrar  wrote  the  best  of  them.  His  boys  are 
girls  in  knickerbockers.  Mention  them  not  in  the 
same  breath  with  "  My  Schoolboy  Friends."  If 
there  are  any  boys  to-day  who  have  not  read  that 
book,  let  them  see  to  it  that  it  is  put  into  their  hands 
at  Christmas.  They  need  not  be  so  particular  about 
having  the  continuation  of  it,  called  "  George's 
Enemies."  Hope  writes  at  his  fireside  with  his 
paper  on  his  knees,  which  must  be  almost  as  pleas- 
ant as  the  method  of  a  distinguished  lady-novelist 
who  finds  that  she  writes  best  in  bed. 

About  fifteen  years  ago  I  heard  that  E.  M.  Ballan- 
tyne  lived  in  Edinburgh.  Then  I  wanted  to  see 
Edinburgh.  Though  a  dozen  years  at  least  have 
passed  since  I  read  any  of  his  books,  I  could  sit 
down  to-day  and  write  out  the  story  of  nearly  every 


BOYS'   BOOKS:    THEIR   GLORIFICATION.      199 

one  of  them  that  had  been  written  up  to  that  time. 
No  books  take  such  a  hold  upon  one  as  the  stories 
he  reads  in  his  boyhood,  and  the  more  reason,  there- 
fore, have  we  to  be  proud  that  there  are  such  manly 
boys'  books  in  the  land.  Ballantyne  was  always 
delightful.  "  Shifting  Winds,"  with  the  stout  gentle- 
man under  whom  the  boudoir  chairs  came  to  grief; 
"  Gascoigne,  the  Sandal- Wood  Trader,"  with  its 
glorious  race ;  "  Ungava,"  with  its  never-to-be-for- 
gotten end  of  Brave  Dick  Prince — how  they  all 
come  back  to  one  when  he  recalls  his  school  days  ! 
Best  of  all  (how  solemnly  we  discussed  which  was 
best  of  all ! )  was  "  The  Coral  Island."  Many  writers 
of  romances  have  had  romantic  notions,  but  you 
can't  do  better  than  wreck  your  hero  on  an  island. 
To  this  day  I  could  not  pass  a  book  by  in  which 
there  was  a  desert  island.  The  Spectator  said  that 
Mr.  Stevenson's  "  Black  Arrow  "  (his  only  poor  book) 
stands  as  a  tale  for  boys  next  to  "  Ivanhoe."  I  scorn 
this.  What  about  "  Robinson  Crusoe  ?  "  Yes,  and 
what  about  "  The  Coral  Island,"  and  Jules  Verne's 
masterpiece,  "  The  Mysterious  Island !  "  Ballan- 
tyne's  is  the  most  fascinating  idea.  Three  boys  are 
wrecked  on  an  island.  One  of  them,  I  remember,  is 
called  Balph,  and  another  Peterkin.  Who  that  has 
read  the  story  will  ever  forget  how  they  emptied 
their  pockets  to  count  their  worldly  possessions, 
or  the  cave  which  was  reached  by  diving?  "Tlis 
Swiss  Family  Robinson,"  though  I  remember  Fritz 


200     BOYS'  BOOKS:    THEIR  GLORIFICATION. 

and  Ernest,  does  not  compare  with  "  The  Coral 
Island,"  which  is  worth  a  thousand  of  "King 
Solomon's  Mines."  No  boy  could  be  expected  to 
respect  another  boy  who  had  not  read  Ballantyne's 
bewitching  book. 

Even  "Ivanhoe"  I  could  only  put  second  to 
"  Robinson  Crusoe."  It  is  to  rob  a  boy  of  his  birth- 
right to  keep  him  from  either  of  them.  Thinking  it 
over  now,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Rebecca  was 
very  superior  to  Rowena,  but  in  the  old  days  when 
we  really  lived,  that  was  not  an  important  point. 
Ivanhoe  licked  the  Templar,  and  Rowena  was  the 
girl  he  wanted,  therefore  Scott  had  to  see  to  it  that 
Ivanhoe  got  Rowena.  We  thought  Bois-Gilbert  a 
villain  from  beginning  to  end,  though  we  admired 
the  way  he  ran  off  with  Rebecca  in  his  arms,  with- 
out noticing  that  she  was  heavy.  Really  we  had 
not  time  to  devote  much  attention  to  the  girls. 
Who  could  think  of  them  when  Robin  Hood  was 
waiting  round  the  corner  ?  The  Black  Knight,  too, 
what  a  superb  creation  he  is !  From  the  boy's  point 
of  view,  "  Ivanhoe "  has  only  one  blot !  That  is 
when  Ivanhoe  goes  out  to  fight  Bois-Gilbert  over 
the  affair  of  Rebecca,  and  the  Templar  is  getting 
the  best  of  it  when  he  has  a  stroke.  Ivanhoe  was 
unwell  at  the  time,  but  we  resented  the  manner  of 
his  victory.  Well  or  ill,  it  was  a  duty  as  a  hero  to 
go  in  and  lick  Bois-Gilbert  in  a  fair,  legitimate 
manner. 


BOYS'  BOOKS:    THEIR  GLORIFICATION.     201 

"  Quentin  Durward n  is  Scott's  second  best  book 
for  boys,  though  it  is  not  so  very  much  better  than 
"  The  Abbot."  The  way  Scott's  boys  ran  their 
swords  into  all  impertinent  persons  is  grand. 
Schoolmasters  would  have  had  to  be  careful  with 
them. 

Just  as  the  boy  has  his  desert  island  period,  there 
comes  a  time  when,  in  imagination,  he  must  take  to 
the  backwoods.  He  wants  scalps.  Kingston  was 
of  some  assistance  to  boys  in  this  condition;  but 
Kingston,  though  he  wrote,  perhaps,  more  books 
than  any  other  man  of  his  day,  had  little  humor,  and 
if  he  finished  one  story  at  eight  o'clock,  was  ready 
to  begin  another  at  half-past.  He  produced  all 
kinds  of  boys'  books  of  fair  merit,  but  none  that 
made  one  wonder  why  the  Government  did  not  name 
a  star  after  him.  Captain  Mayne  Eeid  was  exciting, 
with  his  headless  horseman,  but  he  was  lurid, 
dragged  in  horrors,  had  little  of  the  true  boyish 
spirit.  They  must  both  be  waved  aside  to  allow  of 
the  entrance  of  a  quiet-looking  backwoodsman,  with 
an  eagle  eye,  who  chuckles  to  himself,  but  never 
laughs.  Off  with  your  hats,  for  you  are  in  the  pres- 
ence of  him  who  was  called  severally  Deerslayer, 
Hawkeye,  Pathfinder.  This  is  one  of  the  two  or 
three  really  great  figures  in  boys'  books.  Some 
think  Hawthorne,  some  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe,  some 
Mr.  Howells,  the  greatest  American  writer  of  fiction. 
For  my  part,  I  declare  for  Fenimore  Cooper.    He 


202     BOYS'  BOOKS:    THEIR   GLORIFICATION. 

alone  has  produced  characters  that  will  live.  Scott 
never  had  a  better  than  the  Pathfinder.  Have  we 
not  all  lain  in  the  long  grass  with  the  hawk-eyed 
man  of  the  unerring  rifle  ?  We  have  sat  round  his 
fire,  the  Serpent  in  our  company.  We  have  been  on 
a  boat  with  him  on  queer  moonlight  nights,  when 
he  was  the  deerslayer ;  we  have  been  with  him  at 
the  burial  of  the  last  of  the  Mohicans;  we  have 
seen  him  old  and  done  in  "  The  Prairie."  To  me 
he  is  one  of  the  immortals. 

Before  or  after  he  has  been  on  the  warpath  with 
the  Mohicans,  the  boy  bethinks  himself  of  a  life  on 
the  ocean  wave.  Then  it  is  time  to  ask  at  the  li- 
brary for  "  one  of  Marryat's  ;  "  any  one  will  do,  so 
long  as  you  can  get  all  the  others  by  and  by.  Mr. 
David  Hannay,  son  of  a  brilliant  father  not  soon  to 
be  forgotten  in  Edinburgh — the  late  James  Hannay, 
of  the  Courant — was  complaining  the  other  day  that 
Marry  at  has  hardly  the  position  in  literature  that  he 
deserves.  This  is,  perhaps,  true.  One  hears  more 
nowadays  of  smaller  men ;  but  among  boys,  it  may 
be  presumed,  Marryat  is  as  popular  as  ever.  He  is 
one  of  the  happy  authors  who  can  be  got  at  six- 
pence. I  was  lately  told  that  Marryat  was  coarse, 
which  so  amazed  me  that  I  re-read  some  of  his  books. 
I  found  things  in  them  that  the  boy  sees  not  at  all. 
The  coarseness  is  of  the  rough-and-ready  kind,  put 
in  hurriedly — for  Marryat  was  a  careless  writer — but 
the  books  are  essentially  manly,  and  breed  brave 


BOYS'  BOOKS:    THEIR   GLORIFICATION.      203 

boys.  Which  is  your  favorite  ?  I  believe  I  have  a 
special  weakness  for  "  Percival  Keene,"  whose  prac- 
tical jokes  stick  to  the  memory.  But  what  of  its 
kind  could  be  better  than  "  Jacob  Faithful/'  with  old 
Stapleton  and  his  daughter,  and  old  Tom  and  young 
Tom  ?  "  Peter  Simple  "  would  always  be  a  favorite, 
though  it  contained  nothing  but  the  escape  from 
the  French  prison,  and  most  of  us  have  revelled  in 
the  three-cornered  duel  in  "  Midshipman  Easy." 
"  Tom  Cringle's  Log  "  should  be  remembered  with 
Marryat.  The  only  sea-writer  of  to-day  to  mention 
with  them  is  Mr.  Clark  Russell,  and  his  delightful 
early  books  were  much  his  best.  He  always  has  a 
sentimental  mate  and  a  beautiful  girl  on  board. 


THE  LOST  WORKS   OF  GEORGE 
MEREDITH. 

"  Chloe,  and  Other  Tales  $  with  an  Essay  on  the 
Comic  Spirit/'  by  George  Meredith,  is  a  book  pub- 
lishers have  owed  the  world  for  nearly  ten  years. 
Since  the'  early  summer  of  1879  Mr.  Meredith  has 
written  no  short  stories,  and  apparently  he  has  per- 
manently stayed  his  hand.  The  whole  of  the  book, 
without  which  the  new  edition  of  his  works  is  seri- 
ously incomplete,  lies  buried  in  a  defunct  magazine. 
The  essay  "  On  the  Idea  of  Comedy,  and  of  the 
Uses  of  the  Comic  Spirit,"  is  a  lecture  delivered  by 
Mr.  Meredith  at  the  London  Institution  in  1877, 
and  is  so  much  the  most  brilliant  and  suggestive 
exposition  of  his  idea  of  comedy  that  beside  it  the 
criticisms  of  other  writers  are  of  little  account. 
There  are  three  stories,  one  of  them  a  pure  comedy 
in  Mr.  Meredith's  best  manner ;  the  second  he  calls 
"  a  realistic  tale ;  "  while  the  third  and  greatest,  an 
episode  in  the  history  of  Beau  Beamish,  is  a  noble 
tragedy  that  ends  the  life  of  one  of  the  most  lovable 
women  this  author  has  ever  drawn.  Are  a  hundred 
thousand  words  of  a  master's  writings  to  perish  of 


THE  LOST  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH.      205 

neglect?     Although    the    magazine  is   dead,  why- 
should  all  its  trophies  be  buried  with  it  ? 

Here  there  is  no  intention  to  discuss  Mr.  Mere- 
dith's position  in  letters,  only  an  argument  that 
these  three  stories  have  almost  as  much  title  to 
represent  him  as  his  longer  novels.  The  comedy  is 
"The  Case  of  General  Ople  and  Lady  Camper."  Of 
these  two  delightfully  contrasted  characters  it  may 
be  said,  as  Mr.  Meredith  has  himself  written  of  Miss 
Austen's  Emma  and  her  lover,  that  they  "  might 
walk  straight  into  a  comedy,  were  the  plot  arranged 
for  them  ; "  indeed,  there  is  scene  after  scene  in  the 
story  which  leaves  the  vivid  impression  of  an  acted 
play.  Cut  out  the  author's  comments,  and  a  com- 
edy for  the  stage  remains,  though  not  probably  a 
comedy  with  sufficient  guffaw  in  it  to  command  suc- 
cess. The  central  idea  is  intensely  comic.  General 
Ople,  having  retired  from  the  army,  buys  a  riverside 
house,  which  he  likes  to  call  a  "  gentlemanly  resi- 
dence." His  daughter,  eighteen  years  old,  keeps 
his  house  for  him,  and  by  and  by  he  has  for  a  neigh- 
bor an  eccentric  person,  Lady  Camper.  The  gen- 
eral puts  her  age  down  at  forty,  Elizabeth  says 
fifty,  and  soon  Ople  is  so  interested  in  her  ladyship 
(and  himself)  that  he  has  no  eyes  for  the  love-affair 
growing  up  between  his  daughter  and  Lady  Cam- 
per's nephew.  He  admires  wealth,  titles,  and  his 
own  gallant  way  with  ladies ;  soon  his  neighbor  is 
his  touchstone.    Her  attic  is  the  only  window  that 


206      THE  LOST   WORKS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH. 

has  a  view  of  his  garden,  so  she  asks  him  to  lop  a 
branch  off  one  of  his  trees  that  she  may  spy  into  his 
grounds  without  having  to  ascend.  Her  object  is 
to  watch  the  meetings  of  her  nephew  and  Elizabeth, 
but  the  blind  general  thinks  he  has  made  another 
conquest.  She  fancies  he  has  come  to  talk  of  the 
young  people,  when  he  is  really  dressed  for  a  pro- 
posal. But  Lady  Camper  is  quick,  and  can  be 
outspoken.  He  compliments  her  on  her  morning 
bloom.  "It  can  hardly  be  visible,"  she  replies;  "I 
have  not  painted  yet."  The  infatuated  man  asks 
her  hand  in  marriage,  whereupon  she  informs  him 
that  she  is  seventy,  the  effect  of  which  announce- 
ment on  the  general  is  "  to  raise  him  from  his  chair 
in  a  sitting  posture  as  if  he  had  been  blown  up." 
He  is  fifty -five.  Being  a  fine  gentleman,  the  general 
will  not  draw  back,  yet  the  young-looking  old  lady 
is  not  affected  to  sentiment.  She  will  not  suffer  him 
to  speak  of  his  "  gentlemanly  residence,"  nor  to  say 
it  is  a  "Bijou"  (as  if  he  were  swearing) ;  she  shud- 
ders at  such  a  word  as  "  lady-friend  "  or  "  female," 
and  is  sarcastic  when  he  clips  "  Thank  you  "  down 
to  "  Thanks."  They  quarrel  over  the  loves  of  Eliza- 
beth and  her  officer,  and  the  engagement  is  ended. 
The  general  is  free  again.  "Now,"  he  murmurs, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  "I  know  the  worst !  "—but  he 
does  not.  Her  terrible  ladyship  goes  abroad,  and 
sends  him  from  time  to  time  a  series  of  maddening 
sketches.    They  are  satires  on  his  self-contempla- 


THE  LOST  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH.      207 

tion  and  on  certain  of  his  mannerisms.  One  cartoon 
represents  him  in  a  sentry-box,  and  while  the  Eng- 
lish flag  is  borne  along  by  a  troop  of  shadows  he 
is  saying,  "  I  say  I  should  be  very  happy  to  carry 
it,  but  I  cannot  quit  this  gentlemanly  residence." 
There  are  scenes  between  him  and  the  moon,  whom 
he  tells  of  his  amorous  triumphs,  asking  her  to  say 
whether  she  is  a  "  female,"  that  she  may  be  tri- 
umphed over.  While  he  courts  the  moon  he  says, 
"  In  spite  of  her  paint,  I  could  not  have  conceived 
her  age  to  be  so  enormous."  He  sends  her  his 
"  thanks "  for  a  piece  of  lunar  green  cheese,  and 
points  her  out  as  "  my  lady-friend."  Even  when  she 
returns  home  Lady  Camper  draws  pictures  of  her 
lover  in  church,  and  then  he  is  so  heart-broken  that 
he,  the  best-dressed  of  men,  goes  to  a  garden-party 
without  a  collar  or  necktie.  Tragedy  is  averted  by 
their  getting  married,  her  ladyship  now  explaining 
that  she  is  little  over  forty.  To  shame  him  of  self- 
ishness she  has  forced  him  to  think  of  himself  night 
and  day — a  homoeopathic  cure;  She  is  as  complex 
as  he  is  simple,  but  she  accepts  him  because  she  is 
an  artist  and  he  is  picturesque. 

Want  of  space  compels  us  to  pass  by  "  The  House 
on  the  Beach,"  which  contains  one  striking  figure,  a 
former  shopkeeper,  who,  like  the  immortal  "old 
Mel,"  wants  to  be  a  gentleman.  But,  unlike  the 
tailor,  he  would  be  a  gentleman  on  the  cheap.  The 
closing  scene  is  great.     This  hero  has  been  "  pre- 


208  THE  LOST  WORKS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH.     \ 

sented."  He  loves  to  don  his  court  dress  in  private, 
and  he  has  it  on  when  he  is  rescued  from  a  flood 
that  ruins  him.  The  contrast  between  the  costume 
and  the  wearer's  condition  haunts  the  memory; 
otherwise  this  is  the  least  important  story  of  the 
three. 

"  The  Tale  of  Chloe  "  gives  a  picture  of  the  wells 
as  vivid  as  the  pump-room  scenes  in  "  Harry  Eich- 
mond."  Beau  Beamish  is  king  at  the  wells  when  a 
great  and  aged  nobleman  arrives  to  ask  his  aid.  His 
Grace  had  married  lately  a  beautiful  dairymaid,  who 
wants  to  see  life.  The  duke  is  willing  to  leave  her 
at  the  wells  under  Mr.  Beamish's  protection,  for  of 
late  she  has  yawned  occasionally,  and  than  that 
earthquake  and  saltpetre  are  less  threatening.  Mr. 
Beamish  consents  to  put  her  in  charge  of  one  Chloe, 
who  had  loved  a  villain,  named  Caseldy,  so  well  that 
she  had  impoverished  herself  to  save  him  from 
prison.  He  has  gone  away,  but  she  loves  him  still, 
and  Beau  Beamish  speaks  so  enthusiastically  of  her 
virtue  that  the  duke  says,  "  She  has,  I  see,  preserved 
her  comeliness."  One  of  the  wittiest  scenes  in  the 
story  shows  Mr.  Beamish  and  the  exquisite  Chloe 
bringing  the  duchess  to  the  wells.  They  have  met 
her  outside  the  town,  and  seen  her  parting  with  a 
gallant,  who  turns  out  to  be  the  faithless  Caseldy. 
This  gentleman  appears  at  the  wells  to  further  his 
love  affair  with  the  duchess  from  the  milk-pails,  and 
as  Chloe  realizes  what  is  going  on  she  dies  slowly 


THE  LOST   WORKS  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH.      209 

before  our  eyes,  as  it  were,  though  the  others  under- 
stand nothing.  The  duchess  agrees  to  elope  with 
Caseldy.  It  is  night,  and  Chloe  is  supposed  to  have 
retired  to  rest.  Early  morn  finds  the  duchess  ready, 
and,  looking  from  her  window,  she  can  discern  a 
coach  in  shadow  in  the  street.  In  the  dark  room 
she  feels  her  way  toward  the  door.  Her  hand 
touches  something  that  is  not  the  handle.  It  hangs 
heavily  like  a  gown.  "  Before  any  other  alarm  had 
struck  her  brain,  the  hand  she  felt  with  was  in  a 
palsy,  her  mouth  gaped,  her  throat  thickened,  the 
dust-ball  rose  in  her  throat,  and  the  effort  to  swallow 
it  down  and  get  breath  kept  her  from  acute  specu- 
lation while  she  felt  again,  pinched,  plucked  at  the 
thing,  ready  to  laugh,  ready  to  shriek.  Above  her 
head,  all  on  one  side,  the  thing  had  a  round  white 
top.  Could  it  be  a  hand  that  her  touch  had  slid 
across  ?  An  arm  too !  this  was  an  arm !  She 
clutched  it,  imagining  that  it  clung  to  her.  She 
pulled  it  to  release  herself  from  it,  desperately  she 
pulled,  and  a  lump  descended,  and  a  flash  of  all  the 
torn  nerves  of  her  body  told  her  that  a  dead  human 
body  was  upon  her."  That  is  how  Chloe  died.  The 
author  strikes  a  real  tragic  note  ;  Beau  Beamish  is  a 
memorable  comedy  figure,  but  Mr.  Meredith  could 
not  have  created  Chloe  had  he  not  dug  down  to  the 
very  roots  of  human  nature.  Is  she  to  be  lost  to 
posterity  because  the  story  of  her  life  would  only  fill 

a  hundred  pages  ? 
14 


THE  HUMOR  OF  DICKENS. 

We  have  still  with  us  in  this  country  two  novelists 
who  may  be  called  great  a  hundred  years  hence,  and 
a  few  months  ago  one  of  them  explained  oddly  why 
there  is  no  Dickens  nowadays.  Even  though  I  could 
write  a  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit,"  he  said  in  effect,  no 
magazine  would  print  it.  The  editor  would  write  to 
me  saying  that  Mrs.  Gamp,  for  instance,  was  vulgar, 
or  worse,  and  must  be  struck  out.  If  he  was  a  good- 
natured  editor,  he  would  add  that  he  did  not  object 
to  her  himself,  but  had  to  consider  his  public. 

Another  reason  why  there  is  no  second  Dickens  is 
that  immortals  are  always  scarce.  Despite  those 
careful  editors,  many  writers  have  attempted  to  be 
Dickens  over  again,  and  only  very  lately  have  they 
realized  that  if  they  are  to  be  great  they  must  find 
out  a  way  for  themselves.  Imitation  of  Dickens 
lasted  long,  but  it  seemed  to  have  gone  out,  which  is 
well,  for  the  trick  was  easy  to  writers  and  exasper- 
ating to  readers.  It  did  Dickens  harm.  Who  has 
not  read  a  capital  imitation  of  Dickens's  humor  that 
nevertheless  did  not  make  him  laugh  ?  Who  has 
not  read  a  beautiful  imitation  of  Dickens's  pathos 
that  nevertheless  did  not  make  him  cry?    Yet  the 


THE  HUMOR   OF  DICKENS.  211 

man  or  woman  who  has  neither  laughed  nor  cried 
with  Dickens  has  missed  a  birthright.  By  all  means 
imitate  Dickens,  one  might  say  to  young  novelists, 
if  you  can.  This,  be  it  noted,  however,  is  only  an- 
other way  of  saying,  "  I  have  no  objection,  sir,  to 
your  being  a  genius."  Imitation  would  be  an  ad- 
mirable thing  if  it  took  you  all  the  way.  So  far  it 
has  only  helped  small  writers  to  repeat  the  manner- 
isms of  great  writers.  You  are  not  really  another 
Stevenson,  though  you  wear  a  velvet  coat.  It  is 
more  difficult  than  this. 

Of  all  the  novelists  that  ever  lived  Dickens  was 
the  keenest  observer.  If  he  and  Scott  and  Thack- 
eray and  George  Meredith  had  gone  out  for  a  stroll 
together,  he  would  have  seen  more  that  was  worth 
taking  note  of  than  any  of  them,  though  he  could 
not  always  have  used  it  to  more  effect.  Scott 
would  have  seen  its  picturesque  side  best.  Thack- 
eray would  have  sighed  to  observe  that  it  would  not 
have  happened  had  not  some  lady  pretended  to 
have  three  servants  when  she  had  only  one,  and 
Mr.  Meredith  would  have  had  it  inside  out.  But 
Dickens  would  have  felt  it  most,  and  would  have 
missed  nothing  in  it  that  was  on  the  surface.  Its 
comic  aspect  would  have  been  more  to  him  than  to 
the  others,  and  its  pathetic  side,  too.  Probably  if 
you  had  been  a  witness  of  the  incident  which  all 
four  writers  subsequently  introduced  into  a  story, 
you  would  decide  that   Dickens's  picture  was  the 


212  THE  HUMOR  OF  DICKENS. 

truest,  and  hence  the  best.  Probably,  too,  you 
would  be  quite  wrong.  There  is  a  general  notion 
that  we  meet  Dickens's  characters  more  frequently 
in  real  life  than  the  characters  of  any  other  nov- 
elist. Few  of  us  have  not  had  occasion  to  say  at 
some  period  of  our  life  that  we  knew  a  Pecksniff. 
The  leader-writers  are  constantly  calling  certain 
politicians  Micawbers,  and  at  general  elections  the 
candidates  who  win  only  moral  victories  are  all 
Mark  Tapleys.  Silas  Marners  are  uncommon.  "We 
seldom  call  our  friends  (even  behind  their  backs) 
Joseph  Sedley,  and  we  could  call  them  Sir  Wil- 
loughby  Patterne  to  their  face,  for  they  would  not 
understand  the  inference.  Yet  are  there  many  Mar- 
ners, Sedleys,  and  Patternes  in  the  world,  and  not 
one  Micawber.  With  very  few  exceptions,  Dickens's 
best  characters  are  caricatures.  They  are  not  nearly 
so  human  as  the  Marners,  and  therefore  to  the  hasty 
reader  they  are  much  more  real.  This  seems  curious 
reasoning,  but  it  is  true.  Of  Dickens  it  has  been 
said  that  his  characters  are  only  characteristics.  He 
introduces  to  us  a  man  who  shows  his  teeth,  and 
henceforth  the  teeth  are  the  man.  When  we  see  a 
man  showing  his  teeth,  we  remember  Carker. 
Dickens  was  also  fond  of  ticketing  his  characters 
with  a  catch-phrase,  often  repeated  with  quaint 
effect,  often  merely  an  irritation.  It  is  Micawber's 
favorite  remark  that  we  recall  him  by,  and  the  same 
can  be  said  of  Mr.  Toots.    Take  away  many  of  the 


THE  HUMOR  OF  DICKENS.  213 

Dickens  catch-phrases,  and  you  kill  the  man  who 
uses  them.  This  is  because  he  never  was  a  man,  but 
only  the  thousandth  part  of  one.  Micawber  is  no 
more  a  complete  human  being  than  a  button  is  a  suit 
of  clothes.  Fielding  gives  us  the  whole  man,  and 
for  that  very  reason  his  characters  do  not  take  such 
grip  of  the  memory.  It  is  only  to  the  superficial 
observer  that  we  can  be  distinguished  from  each 
other  by  hard  and  fast  lines.  The  one  of  us  is  not 
black  and  the  other  white,  and  a  third  and  fourth  red 
and  blue,  as  Dickens  paints  us.  For  every  point  of 
difference  we  have  a  dozen  in  common,  and  thus  the 
novelist  who  draws  a  complete  man  never  creates  a 
figure  that  stands  out  from  all  other  figures.  He 
aims  not  at  producing  beings  theatrically  effective, 
less  at  representing  a  man  indeed  than  at  represent- 
ing man.  This  is  the  difference  in  object  between 
Dickens  and  Mr.  Meredith. 

Dickens's  method  suited  him  because  he  had 
humor  sufficient  to  supply  a  nation.  All  of  us  have 
some  foible  (which  may  be  what  makes  us  lovable), 
and  Dickens  saw  it,  and  made  a  man  of  it.  Where 
he  misses  its  comic  aspect  his  failure  is  utter,  and 
now  and  again  he  does  fail  dolefully,  through  in- 
sisting on  making  that  comic  which  is  not  comic. 
His  humorous  way  of  looking  at  things,  which  has 
been  the  joy  of  millions,  occasionally  undid  him. 
He  felt  compelled  to  produce  comic  copy,  and  when 
he  had  no  milk  he  sold  water.     The  first  chapter  of 


214  THE  HUMOR  OF  DICKENS. 

"  Martin  Chuzzlewit  "  is  about  the  most  melancholy 
reading  in  fiction.  In  all  Dickens  there  is  nothing 
else  quite  so  forced,  though  often  we  are  asked  to 
laugh  and  cannot.  To  dwell  on  the  occasions  where 
Dickens's  humor  failed  him  is,  however,  to  waste 
our  words,  for  he  succeeds  a  hundred  times  for 
every  failure. 

But  few  seek  to  dispute  Dickens's  pre-eminence 
as  a  humorist,  except  such  as  do  not  know  how  to 
laugh.  It  is  only  to  be  noted  in  passing  that  per- 
haps once  a  year  a  man  is  born  who  has  the  sense 
of  humor  and  yet  does  not  enjoy  Dickens.  Disraeli 
was  one  of  these.  When  we  come,  however,  to  the 
discussion  of  Dickens's  pathos  we  take  sides.  We 
may  revel  in  "  Pickwick,"  and  yet  find  Paul  Dom- 
bey  sickening.  Dickens's  pathos,  indeed,  is  usually 
of  the  cheapest  kind,  for  it  is  forced  and  deliberate, 
because  he  is  determined  to  make  us  cry  as  loud  as 
he  can  make  us  laugh.  He  introduces  children  into 
his  stories  that  he  may  kill  them  to  slow  music. 
He  may  be  compared  to  the  actors  who,  if  they 
think  they  are  good  at  dying,  insist  on  making  an 
act  of  it.  He  tells  us  himself  that  he  wept  over  lit- 
tle Paul's  death,  and  it  is  certain  that  thousands 
have  wept  over  it  since,  especially  if  it  was  read 
aloud  by  some  skilled  reader  who  knew  when  to  let 
his  voice  break.  But  it  is  a  maudlin  chapter,  and 
betrays  a  weakness  in  the  author  who  shows  a  readi- 
ness to  dabble  in  this  morbid  manner.     We  would 


THE  HUMOR  OF  DICKENS.  215 

not  think  the  better  of  a  doctor  who  invited  us,  for 
a  treat,  to  step  into  an  infirmary  and  watch  a  little 
boy  dying".  This  is  what  Dickens  does,  and  he  also 
requests  us  to  observe  how  prettily  he  can  drop 
into  poetry  over  the  bedside.  Here  essentially  you 
find  a  wide  divergence  in  the  novels  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  The  Wizard  of  the  North  was  naturally  in- 
capable of  the  sickly  sentimentality  which  casts  a 
blemish  on  many  of  Dickens's  pages.  A  healthy 
nature  rebels  against  it,  and  there  is  certainly 
something  unmanly  in  Dickens's  fondness  for  such 
scenes. 

Many  times,  of  course,  Dickens  is  most  tender,  as 
in  numberless  passages  in  the  boyhood  of  David 
Copperfield.  Were  he  not,  we  would  have  to  allow 
that  the  connection  between  humor  and  pathos  is 
less  close  than  had  been  thought.  It  is  only  the 
punsters  of  the  comic  papers  who  can  be  funny 
often  and  serious  never.  They  are  not  real  humor- 
ists ;  at  the  best  they  are  merely  wits.  Humor  and 
pathos  are  the  children  of  sympathy  (which  only 
produces  twins),  and  Dickens  was  one  of  the  most 
sympathetic  of  men  ;  certainly  the  most  sympa- 
thetic of  the  great  English  novelists.  The  reason 
why  his  humor  is  better  than  his  pathos  is  that  he 
was  a  caricaturist.  With  him  everything  is  larger 
than  life.  Now  humor  may  be  of  the  best  kind 
though  it  exaggerates,  but  pathos  can  never  be 
larger    than    life  -  size.     Where    Dickens's    pathos 


21 G  THE  HUMOR  OF  DIG  KENS. 

is  subdued  it  rings  true,  but  where  he  casts  a 
strong  light  on  it  it  is  lurid  in  the  colors  of  melo- 
drama. 

The  later  works  of  Dickens  are  much  better 
constructed  than  their  predecessors  ;  the  writing 
is  more  artistic,  and  the  thread  of  the  story  less 
broken.  They  are,  therefore,  some  hold,  better 
books.  But  surely  this  is  not  true.  "  Pickwick  "  is 
flung  together  u  anyhow,"  so  that  we  could  still 
enjoy  it  though  we  began  at  the  last  chapter  and 
journeyed  onward  to  the  first.  There  are  hundreds 
of  pages  in  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit "  and  "  Nicholas 
Nickleby  "  that  could  be  cut  out  without  interfering 
with  the  plot.  But  it  is  these  incidental  details 
that  give  us  Dickens  at  his  best.  They  are  the 
immortal  part  of  him.  What  the  hostler  at  the  inn 
or  the  man  on  the  coach  said  is  for  reading  every 
year,  while  the  murder  and  what  led  to  it  in- 
terest us  but  once.  Jonas  Chuzzlewit  gives  us  sen- 
sation and  a  headache,  but  Mark  Tapley  gives  us 
a  friend  for  life  and  Pecksniff  haunts  our  mirthful 
moments  in  common  with  Pickwick.  Thus,  though 
as  stories  the  later  books  are  more  ingenious,  they 
do  not  compensate  for  the  lack  of  humorous  detail. 
The  earlier  novels  had  less  art,  but  they  were 
fresher. 

In  one  respect  Dickens  and  Scott  may  be  com- 
pared. They  are  the  most  wholesome  of  the 
novelists.   No  other  writers  of  fiction  in  this  country 


THE  HUMOR  OF  DICKENS.  217 

have  done  so  much  good.  Neither  was  "deep." 
Their  optimism  was  at  times,  doubtless,  somewhat 
shallow,  but  they  were  great  men,  who  loved  their 
fellow-creatures  and  ever  used  their  capacities  to  a 
noble  purpose. 


GKETNA  GKEEN  KEVISITED. 

The  one  bumpy  street  of  Springfield,  despite  its 
sparse  crop  of  grass,  presents  to  this  day  a  depressed 
appearance,  a  relic  of  the  time  when  it  doubled  up 
under  a  weight  of  thundering  chariots.  At  the  well- 
remembered,  notorious  Queen's  Head  I  stood  in  the 
gathering  gloaming,  watching  the  road  run  yellow, 
until  the  last  draggled  hen  had  spluttered  through 
the  pools  to  roost,  and  the  mean  row  of  whitewashed, 
shrunken  houses  across  the  way  had  sunk  into  the 
sloppy  ground,  as  they  have  been  doing  slowly  for 
half  a  century3  or  were  carried  away  in  a  rush  of  rain. 
Soaking  weed  hung  in  lifeless  bunches  over  the 
hedges  of  spears  that  line  the  road  from  Gretna ;  on 
sodden  Canobie  Lea,  where  Lochinvar's  steed  would 
to-day  have  had  to  wade  through  yielding  slush, 
dirty  piles  of  congealed  snow  were  still  reluctant  to 
be  gone  ;  and  gnarled  tree-trunks,  equally  with  pal- 
ings that  would  have  come  out  of  the  ground  with  a 
sloppy  gluck,  showed  a  dank  and  cheerless  green. 
Yesterday  the  rooks  dinned  the  air,  and  the  parish 
of  Gretna  witnessed  such  a  marrying  and  giving  in 
mairiage  as  might  have  flung  it  back  fifty  years. 
Elsewhere  such  a  solemn  cawing  round  the  pulpit 


GRETNA   GREEK  REVISITED.  219 

on  the  tree-tops  would  denote  a  court  of  justice,  but 
in  the  vicinity  of  Spring-field,  it  may  be  presumed, 
the  thoughts  of  the  very  rooks  run  on  matrimony. 

A  little  while  ago  Willum  Lang",  a  postman's 
empty  letter-bag-  on  his  back,  and  a  glittering  drop 
trembling  from  his  nose,  picked  his  way  through 
the  puddles,  his  lips  pursed  into  a  portentous  frown, 
and  his  gray  head  bowed  professionally  in  contem- 
plation of  a  pair  of  knock-kneed  but  serviceable 
shanks.  A  noteworthy  man  Willum,  son  of  Si- 
mon, son  of  David,  grandson  by  marriage  of  Jos- 
eph Paisley,  all  famous  "  blacksmiths "  of  Gretna 
Green.  For  nigh  a  century  Springfield  has  marked 
time  by  the  Langs,  and  still  finds  "  In  David  Lang's 
days"  as  forcible  as  "when  Plancus  was  consul." 
Willum's  predecessors  in  office  reserved  themselves 
for  carriage  runaways,  and  would  shake  the  lids 
from  their  coffins  if  they  knew  that  Willum  had  to 
marry  the  once  despised  "pedestrians."  "Even 
Elliot,"  David  Lang  would  say,  "  could  join  couples 
who  came  on  foot,"  and  that,  of  course,  was  very 
hard  on  the  poor  pedestrian,  for  greater  contempt 
no  man  ever  had  for  rival  than  David  for  Elliot, 
unless,  indeed,  it  was  Elliot's  for  David.  But  those 
were  the  great  clattering  days,  when  there  were  four 
famous  marrying  shops :  the  two  rival  inns  of  Spring- 
field, that  washed  their  hands  of  each  other  across 
the  street  ;  Mr.  Linton's  aristocratic  quarters  at 
Gretna  Hall,  and  the  toll-bar  on  the  right  side  of  the 


220  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

Sark.  A  gentleman  who  had  requisitioned  the  ser- 
vices of  the  toll-keeper  many  years  ago  recently 
made  a  journey  across  the  border  to  shake  his  fist  at 
the  bar,  and  no  one  in  Gretna  Green  can  at  all  guess 
why.  Far-seeing  Murray,  the  sometime  priest  of 
Gretna  Hall,  informed  me,  succeeded  Beattie  at  the 
toll-house  in  1843,  and  mighty  convenient  friends  in 
need  they  both  proved  for  the  couples  who  dashed 
across  the  border  with  foaming  fathers  at  their 
coaches'  wheels.  The  stone  bridge  flashed  fire  to 
rushing  hoofs,  the  exulting  pursuers,  knowing  that 
a  half-mile  brae  still  barred  the  way  to  Springfield, 
saw  themselves  tearing  romantic  maidens  from  ad- 
venturers' arms,  when  Beattie's  lamp  gleamed  in  the 
night,  the  horses  stopped  as  if  an  invisible  sword  had 
cleft  them  in  twain,  the  maid  was  whisked  like  a  bun- 
dle of  stolen  goods  into  the  toll-bar,  and  her  father 
flung  himself  in  at  the  door  in  time  to  be  introduced 
to  his  son-in-law.  Oh,  Beattie  knew  how  to  do  his 
work  expeditiously,  and  fat  he  waxed  on  the  proceeds. 
In  his  later  days  marrying  became  the  passion  of  his 
life,  and  he  never  saw  a  man  and  a  maid  together 
without  creeping  up  behind  them  and  beginning 
the  marriage  service.  In  Springfield  there  still  are 
men  and  women  who  have  fled  from  him  for  their 
celibacy,  marriage  in  Scotland  being  such  an  easy 
matter  that  you  never  know  when  they  may  not  have 
you.  In  joining  couples  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
the  thing,  Simon  brought  high  fees  into  disrepute, 


GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED.  221 

and  was  no  favorite  with  the  rest  of  the  priesthood. 
That  half-mile  nearer  the  border,  Jardine  admits, 
gave  the  toll-bar  a  big  advantage,  but  for  runaways 
who  could  risk  another  ten  minutes,  Gretna  Hall 
was  the  place  to  be  married  at. 

Willum  Lang's  puckered  face  means  business. 
He  has  been  sent  for  by  a  millworker  from  Lang- 
holm, who,  having  an  hour  to  spare,  thinks  he  may 
as  well  drop  in  at  the  priest's  and  get  spliced ;  or 
by  an  innocent  visitor  wandering  through  the  vil- 
lage in  search  of  the  mythical  smithy;  or  by  a 
lawyer  who  shakes  his  finger  threateningly  at  Wil- 
lum (and  might  as  well  have  stayed  at  home  with 
his  mother).  From  the  most  distant  shores  letters 
reach  him  regarding  Gretna  marriages,  and  if  Wil- 
lum dislikes  monotony  he  must  be  getting  rather 
sick  of  the  stereotyped  beginning,  "I  think  your 
charges  very  extortionate."  The  stereotyped  end- 
ing, "but  the  sum  you  asked  for  is  enclosed,"  is 
another  matter.  It  is  generally  about  midnight 
that  the  rustics  of  the  county  rattle  Willum's  door 
off  it's  snib  and,  bending  over  his  bed,  tell  him  to 
arise  and  marry  them.  His  hand  is  crossed  with 
silver  coin,  for  gone  are  the  bridegrooms  whose  gold 
dribbled  in  a  glittering  cascade  from  fat  purses  to  a 
horny  palm;  and  then,  with  a  sleepy  neighbor,  a 
cold  hearth,  and  a  rattling  cynic  of  a  window  for 
witnesses,  he  does  the  deed.  Elsewhere  I  have  used 
these  words  to  describe  the  scene :  "  The  room  ik 


222  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

which  the  Gretna  Green  marriages  have  been  cele- 
brated for  many  years  is  a  large  rude  kitchen,  but 
dimly  lighted  by  a  small  'bole'  window  of  lumpy 
glass  that  faces  an  ill-fitting  back  door.  The  draught 
generated  between  the  two  cuts  the  spot  where  the 
couples  stand,  and  must  prove  a  godsend  to  flushed 
and  flurried  bridegrooms.  A  bed — wooden  and  solid, 
ornamented  with  divers  shaped  and  divers  colored 
clothes  dependent  from  its  woodwork  like  linen  hung 
on  a  line  to  dry — fills  a  lordly  space.  The  monster 
fireplace  retreats  bashfully  before  it  into  the  oppo- 
site wall,  and  a  grimy  cracked  ceiling  looks  on  a 
bumpy  stone  floor,  from  which  a  cleanly  man  could 
eat  his  porridge.  One  shabby  wall  is  happily  hid 
by  the  drawers  in  which  Lang  keeps  his  books; 
and  against  the  head  of  the  bed  an  apoplectic  Mrs. 
Langtry  in  a  blue  dress  and  yellow  stockings,  re- 
minding the  public  that  Simon  Lang's  teas  are  the 
best,  shudders  at  her  reflection  in  the  looking  glass 
that  dangles  opposite  her  from  a  string."  The 
signboard  over  a  snuffy  tavern  that  attempted  to 
enter  into  rivalry  with  the  Queen's  Head  depicts 
the  priest  on  his  knees  going  through  the  church 
marriage  services,  but  the  Langs  have  alwa}^s  kept 
their  method  of  performing  the  ceremony  a  secret 
between  themselves  and  the  interested  persons,  and 
the  artist  in  this  case  was  doubtless  drawing  on 
his  imagination.  The  picture  is  discredited  by  the 
scene  of  the  wedding  being  made  in  a  smithy,  when 


GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED.  223 

it  is  notorious  that  the  "  blacksmith "  has  cut  the 
tobacco  plug,  and  caught  fish  in  the  Solway,  and 
worked  at'  the  loom,  the  last,  and  the  toll-bar,  but 
never  wielded  Vulcan's  hammer.  The  popular  term 
is  thus  a  mystery,  though  a  witness  once  explained, 
in  a  trial,  to  Brougham,  that  Gretna  marriages  were 
a  welding  of  heat.  Now  the  welding  of  heat  is  part 
of  a  blacksmith's  functions. 

It  is  not  for  Willuni  Lang  to  censure  the  Lang- 
holm millworkers,  without  whose  patronage  he 
would  be  as  a  priest  superannuated,  but  if  they 
could  be  got  to  remember  whom  they  are  married 
to,  it  would  greatly  relieve  his  mind.  When  stand- 
ing before  him  they  are  given  to  wabbling  un- 
steadily on  their  feet,  and  to  taking  his  inquiry 
whether  the  maiden  on  their  right  is  goodly  in  their 
sight  for  an  offer  of  another  "mutchkin:''  and  next 
morning  they  sometimes  mistake  somebody  else's 
maiden  for  their  own.  When  one  of  the  youth  of 
the  neighborhood  takes  to  him  a  helpmate  at 
Springfield  his  friend  often  whiles  away  the  time 
by  courting  another,  and  when  they  return  to  Lang- 
holm things  are  sometimes  a  little  mixed  up.  The 
priest,  knowing  what  is  expected  of  him,  is  general- 
ly able  when  appealed  to,  to  "  assign  to  each  bride- 
groom his  own;"  but  one  shudders  to  think  what 
complications  may  arise  when  Willum's  eyes  and 
memory  go.  These  weddings  are,  of  course,  as  legal 
as  though  Lang  were  Archbishop   of  Canterbury, 


224  GRETNA  GREEN  REVISITED. 

but  the  clergymen  shake  their  heads,  and  sometimes 
— as  indeed  was  the  case  even  in  the  great  days — a 
second  marriage  by  a  minister  is  not  thought  amiss. 
About  the  year  1826,  the  high  road  to  Scotland 
ran  away  from  Springfield.  Weeds  soon  afterward 
sprouted  in  the  street,  and  though  the  place's  repu- 
tation died  hard,  its  back  had  been  broken.  Run- 
aways  skurried  by  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and  at 
a  convenient  point  on  the  new  road  shrewd  John 
Linton  dropped  Gretna  Hall.  Springfield's  con- 
venient situation  had  been  its  sole  recommendation, 
and  when  it  lost  that  it  was  stranded.  The  first 
entry  in  the  Langs'  books  dates  back  to  1771,  when 
Joseph  Paisley  represented  the  priesthood,  but  the 
impetus  to  Gretna  marriages  had  been  given  by  the 
passing  of  Lord  Hardwicke's  act,  a  score  of  }^ears 
before.  Legend  speaks  of  a  Solway  fisherman  who 
taught  tobacconist  Paisley  the  business.  Prior  to 
1754,  when  the  law  put  its  foot  down  on  all  unions 
not  celebrated  by  ministers  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, there  had  been  no  need  to  resort  to  Scotland, 
for  the  chaplains  of  the  fleet  were  anticipating  the 
priests  of  Gretna  Green,  and  doing  a  roaring  trade. 
Broadly  speaking,  it  was  as  easy  between  the  Refor- 
mation and  1745  to  get  married  in  the  one  country 
as  in  the  other.  The  Marriage  Act  changed  all  that. 
It  did  a  real  injustice  to  non-members  of  the  Es- 
tablished Church,  and  only  cured  the  disease  in  one 
place  to  let  it  break  out  in  another.     Lord  Hard- 


GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED.  225 

wicke  might  have  been  a  local  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, pushing*  a  bill  through  the  House  "  for  the 
promotion  of  Larceny  and  Eowdyism  at  Gretna 
Green."  For  the  greater  part  of  a  century,  there 
was  a  whirling  of  coaches  and  a  clattering  of  horses 
across  the  border,  after  which  came  marriage  in 
England  before  a  registrar,  and  an  amendment  of 
the  Scotch  law  that  required  residence  north  of  the 
Sark,  on  the  part  of  one  of  the  parties,  for  twenty- 
one  days  before  the  ceremony  took  place.  After 
that  the  romance  of  Gretna  Green  was  as  a  tale  that 
was  told.  The  latter  half  of  the  last  century,  and 
the  first  twenty  years  of  this,  were  thus  the  palmy 
days  of  Springfield,  for  after  Gretna  Hall  hung  out 
its  signboard,  the  Langs  were  oftener  seen  at  the 
"  big  house  "  than  in  the  double-windowed  parlor  of 
the  Queen's  Head. 

The  present  landlord  of  this  hostelry,  a  lightsome 
host,  troubled  with  corns,  who  passes  much  of  his 
time  with  a  knife  in  one  hand  and  his  big  toe  in  the 
other,  is  nephew  of  that  Beattie  who  saw  his  way  to 
bed  by  the  gleam  of  post-boy's  lamps,  and  spent  his 
days  unsnibbing  the  Queen's  Head  door  to  let  run- 
aways in,  and  barring  it  to  keep  their  pursuers  out. 
Much  depends  on  habit,  and  Beattie  slept  most 
soundly  to  the  drone  of  the  priest  in  his  parlor,  and 
the  rub-a-dub  of  baffled  parents  on  his  window-sills. 
His  nephew,  also  a  Beattie,  brings  his  knife  with 

him  into  the  immortal  room,  where  peers  of  the 
15 


226  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

realm  have  mated  with  country  wenches,  and  line 
ladies  have  promised  to  obey  their  father's  stable- 
boys,  and  two  Lord  Chancellors  of  England  with  a 
hundred  others  have  blossomed  into  husbands,  and 
one  wedding  was  celebrated  of  which  neither  Beattie 
nor  the  world  takes  any  account.  There  are  half  a 
dozen  tongues  in  the  inn — itself  a  corpse  now  that 
wearily  awaits  interment — to  show  you  where  Lord 
Erskine  gambolled  in  a  table-cloth,  while  David 
Lang  united  him  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony  with 
his  housekeeper,  Sarah  Buck.  There  is  the  table  at 
which  he  composed  some  Latin  doggerel  in  honor 
of  the  event,  and  the  doubtful  signature  on  a  cracked 
pane  of  glass.  A  strange  group  they  must  have 
made — the  gaping  landlord  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Buck, 
the  superstitious,  with  all  her  children  in  her  arms, 
David  Lang  rebuking  the  Lord  Chancellor  for  pos- 
ing in  the  lady's  bonnet,  Erskine  in  his  table-cloth 
skipping  around  the  low-roofed  room  in  answer,  and 
Christina  Johnstone,  the  female  witness,  thinking 
sadly  that  his  lordship  might  have  known  better. 
Here,  too,  Lord  Eldon  galloped  one  day  with  his 
"  beloved  Bessy  ; "  and  it  is  not  uninteresting  to  note 
that  though  he  came  into  the  world  eighteen  months 
after  Lord  Erskine,  he  paid  Gretna  Green  a  business 
visit  nearly  fifty  years  before  him.  Lang's  books 
are  a  veritable  magic-lantern,  and  the  Queen's  Head 
the  sheet  on  which  he  casts  his  figures.  The  slides 
change.     Joseph  Paisley  sees  his  shrewd  assistant, 


GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED.  227 

David  Lang-,  marry  his  granddaughter,  and  dies 
characteristically  across  the  way.  David  has  his 
day,  and  Simon,  his  son,  succeeds  him ;  and  in  the 
meantime  many  a  memorable  figure  glides  shadow- 
like across  the  screen.  The  youth  with  his  heart  in 
his  mouth  is  Lord  George  Lambton.  It  is  an  Earl 
of  Westmoreland  that  plants  his  shoulders  against 
the  door,  and  tells  the  priest  to  hurry.  The  foot 
that  drums  on  the  floor  is  Lady  Alicia  Parson's.  A 
son  of  Lord  Chief  Justice  Ellenborough  makes  way 
for  his  own  son ;  a  daughter  follows  in  the  very  foot- 
steps of  her  father,  only  a  few  hours  between  them. 
A  daughter  of  Archdeacon  Philpot  arrives  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  her  companion  forgets 
to  grease  the  landlord's  hand.  The  Hon.  Charles 
Law  just  misses  Lord  Deerhurst.  There  are  ghosts  in 
cocked  hats,  and  naval  and  military  uniform,  in  mus- 
lin, broadcloth,  tweed  and  velvet,  gold  lace  and  pig- 
skin ;  swords  flash,  pistols  smoke,  steaming  horses 
bear  bleeding  riders  out  of  sight,  and  a  thousand 
forms  flit  weird  and  shadowy  through  the  stifling 
room. 

The  dinner  of  the  only  surviving  priest  of  Gretna 
Hall  frizzled  under  the  deft  knife  of  his  spouse  as 
he  rubbed  his  hands  recently  over  the  reminiscences 
of  his  youth.  Willum  Lang  never  officiated  at  the 
Hall.  Intelligent  Jardine,  full  of  years  and  honors, 
now  enjoys  his  ease,  not  without  a  priestly  dignity, 
on  a  kitchen  sofa,  in  his  pocket  edition  of  a  home  at 


228  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

Springfield,  and  it  is  perhaps  out  of  respect  to  his 
visitor  that  he  crowns  his  hoary  head  with  a  still 
whiter  hat.  His  arms  outstretched  to  the  fire,  he 
looks,  by  the  flashes  of  light,  in  his  ingle-nook  a 
Shakespearian  spirit  crouching  over  an  unholy  pot, 
but  his  genial  laugh  betrays  him,  and  his  comely 
wife  does  not  scruple  to  recall  him  to  himself  when 
he  threatens  to  go  off  in  an  eternal  chuckle.  A  stal- 
wart border-woman  she,  in  short  petticoats  and  de- 
lightful cap,  such  as  in  the  killing  times  of  the  past 
bred  the  Johnny  Armstrongs  and  the  terrible  moss- 
troopers of  the  border.  A  storehouse  of  old  ballads, 
and  a  Scotchwoman  after  Scott's  own  heart. 

The  day  that  Gretna  Hall  became  an  inn,  its  land- 
lord felt  himself  called  to  the  priesthood,  and  as 
long  as  he  and  his  son  remained  above  ground,  mar- 
riage was  the  heaviest  item  in  their  bills.  But 
when  Gretna  knew  them  no  more,  Jardine's  chance 
had  come.  Even  at  Springfield  the  line  has  always 
been  drawn  at  female  priests,  and  from  the  "big 
house  "  used  to  come  frequent  messages  to  the  shoe- 
maker with  its  mistress's  compliments,  and  would 
he  step  up  at  once.  The  old  gentleman  is  a  bit  of  a 
dandy  in  his  way,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  know  that  Nat- 
ure herself  gave  him  on  those  occasions  a  hint  when 
it  was  time  to  dress.  The  rush  for  him  down  dark 
fields  and  across  the  Headless  Cross  was  in  a  flurry 
of  haste,  but  in  the  still  night  the  rumble  of  a  dis- 
tant coach  had  been  borne  to  him  over  the  howes 


GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED.  229 

and  meadows,  and  Jardine  knew  what  that  meant 
as  well  as  the  marriage  service.  Sometimes  the 
coaches  came  round  by  Springfield,  when  the  hall 
was  full,  and  there  was  a  tumbling  out  and  in  again 
by  trembling  runaways  at  rival  inns.  Even  the 
taverns  have  run  couples,  and  up  and  down  the 
sleety  street  horses  pranced  and  panted  in  search  of 
an  idle  priest.  Jardine  remembers  one  such  night- 
mare time  when  the  clatter  of  a  pursuing  vehicle 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  a  sweet  young  lady 
in  the  Queen's  Head  flung  up  her  hands  to 
heaven.  Crash  went  her  true  lover's  fist  through 
a  pane  of  glass  to  awaken  the  street  (which  always 
slept  with  one  eye  open)  with  the  hoarse  wail,  "  A 
hundred  pounds  to  the  man  that  marries  me  !  "  But 
big  as  was  the  bribe,  the  speed  of  the  pursuers  was 
greater,  and  the  maiden's  father  looking  in  at  the 
inn  at  an  inconvenient  moment  called  her  away  to 
fulfil  another  engagement.  The  Solway  lies  white 
from  Gretna  Hall  like  a  sheet  of  mourning  paper, 
between  edges  of  black  trees  and  hills.  The  famous 
long,  low  room  still  looks  out  on  an  ageing  park, 
but  they  are  only  ghosts  that  join  hands  in  it  now, 
and  it  is  a  clinging  to  old  days  that  makes  the 
curious  moon  peep  beneath  the  blind.  The  priest 
and  the  unbidden  witness  still  are,  but  brides  and 
bridegrooms  come  no  more.  To  the  days  of  his 
youth  Jardine  had  to  fling  back  his  memory  to  re- 
call the  gravel  springing  from  the  wheels  of  Wake- 


230  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

field's  flying  chariot.  The  story  is  told  in  Hutchin- 
son's "  Chronicles  of  Gretna  Green,"  the  first  volume 
of  which  leads  up  to  but  does  not  broach  the  subject, 
and  is  common  property  at  Springfield.  The  adven- 
turer's dupe  was  an  affectionate  schoolgirl,  on  whose 
feelings  he  worked  by  representing  himself  as  the 
one  friend  who  could  save  her  father  from  ruin  and 
disgrace.  The  supposed  bankrupt  was  said  to  have 
taken  flight  to  Scotland,  and  the  girl  of  fifteen,  jump- 
ing into  Wakefield's  coach  at  Liverpool,  started  with 
him  in  pursuit.  A  more  graceless  rascal  never  was, 
for  at  Carlisle  the  adventurer  swore  that  he  had 
talked  with  Miss  Turner's  father  in  a  hotel  where  he 
was  lying  hidden  from  the  sheriff's  officers,  and 
that  the  fugitive's  wish  was  that  she  should,  with- 
out delay,  accept  Mr.  "Wakefield's  hand.  The  poor 
lassie,  frantic  with  anxiety,  was  completely  gulled, 
and  on  March  8,  1826,  Wakefield's  coach  drew 
up  at  Gretna  Hall.  Too  late  came  the  pursuit  to 
stop  the  marriage,  but  the  runaways  were  traced 
to  France,  and  the  law  soon  had  the  husband  of  a 
week  by  the  heels.  He  had  trusted,  like  all  his 
brotherhood,  to  the  lady's  father  making  the  best 
of  it ;  and  so,  perhaps,  he  did ;  for  the  adventurer's 
address  for  the  next  three  years  was— Newgate, 
London. 

Spiders  of  both  sexes  kept  their  nets  at  Gretna 
Green,  but  a  tragedy  was  only  enacted  at  the  hall 
between  a  score  of  comedies ;  and  they  were  gener- 


GRETNA  GREEN  REVISITED.  231 

ally  love-sick  youths  and  maidens  who  interrupted 
the  priest  to  ask  if  that  was  not  the  "  so — sound  of 
wh — wheels  on  the  gravel  walk  ?  "  A  couple  whom 
it  would  almost  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  marry 
without  a  fee  (for  the  mere  example  of  the  thing)  was 
that  which  raced  from  the  south  of  England  with 
the  lady's  father.  When  they  reached  the  top  of  a 
hill  his  arms  were  gesticulating  at  the  bottom,  and 
they  never  turned  one  corner  without  seeing  his 
steaming  horse  take  another.  Poor  was  the  fond 
lover  (dark  his  prospects  at  Gretna  Green  in  conse- 
quence) but  brave  the  maid,  to  whom  her  friends 
would  insist  on  leaving  money,  which  was  the  cause 
of  the  whole  to-do.  The  father,  looking  on  the 
swain  with  suspicious  eye,  took  to  dreaming  of  pos- 
tilions, high-roads,  blacksmiths  and  Gretna  Green, 
He  would  not  suffer  his  daughter  to  move  from  his 
sight,  and  even  to  dances  he  escorted  her  in  his 
private  carriage,  returning  for  her  (for  he  was  a  busy 
man)  at  night.  Quick  of  invention  were  the  infuri- 
ated lovers.  Threading  the  mazes  of  a  dance,  the  girl 
was  one  evening  snatched  from  her  partner's  arms  by 
the  announcement  that  her  father's  carriage  barred 
the  way  below.  A  hurried  explanation  of  why  he 
had  come  so  soon,  a  tripping  down  the  stairs  with 
trembling  limbs  into  a  close  coach,  a  maiden  in 
white  in  her  lover's  arms,  and  hey-ho  for  Gretna 
Green.  Jardine  is  mellowed  with  a  gentle  cynicism, 
and  sometimes  he  breaks  off  in  his  reminiscences  to 


232  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

wonder  what  people  want  to  be  married  for.  The 
Springfield  priest,  he  chuckles,  is  a  blacksmith  at 
whom  love  cannot  afford  to  laugh.  Ay,  friend  Jar- 
dine,  but  what  about  the  blacksmith  who  laughs  at 
love? 

Half  a  century  ago  Mr.  McDiarmid,  a  Scotch  jour- 
nalist of  repute,  loosened  the  tongue  of  a  Springfield 
priest  with  a  bowl  of  toddy.  The  result  was  as  if 
the  sluice  had  been  lifted  bodily  from  a  dam,  and 
stories  (like  the  whiskey)  flowed  like  water.  One 
over-curious  paterfamilias  there  was  who  excused  his 
visit  to  the  village  of  weddings  on  the  ground  that 
he  wished  to  introduce  to  the  priest  a  daughter  who 
might  one  day  require  his  services.  "  And  sure 
enough,"  old  Elliot,  who  entered  into  partnership 
with  Simon  Lang,  crowed  to  his  toddy -ladle,  "  I  had 
her  back  with  a  younger  man  in  the  matter  of  three 
months !  "  There  lives,  too,  in  Springfield's  memory 
the  tale  of  the  father  who  bolted  with  an  elderly 
spinster,  and  returning  to  England  passed  his 
daughter  and  her  lover  on  the  way.  Dark  and  win- 
try was  the  night,  the  two  coaches  rattled  by,  and 
next  morning  four  persons  who  had  gone  wrong 
opened  the  eyes  of  astonishment. 

When  David  Lang  was  asked  during  Wakefield's 
trial  how  much  he  had  been  paid  for  discharging  the 
duties  of  priest,  he  replied,  pleasantly,  "  £20  or  £30, 
or  perhaps  £40;  I  cannot  say  to  a  few  pounds." 
This  was  pretty  well,  but  there  are  authenticated 


GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED.  233 

cases  in  which  £100  was  paid.  The  priests  had  no 
fixed  fee,  and  charged  according  to  circumstances. 
If  business  was  slack  and  the  bridegroom  not  press- 
ing, they  lowered  their  charges,  but  where  the  bribed 
post-boys  told  them  of  high  rank,  hot  pursuit,  and 
heavy  purses,  they  squeezed  their  dupes  remorse- 
lessly. It  is  told  of  Joseph  Paisley  that  when  on  his 
death-bed  he  heard  the  familiar  rumble  of  coaches 
into  the  village,  he  shook  death  from  him,  ordered 
the  runaways  to  approach  his  presence,  married 
three  couples  from  his  bed,  and  gave  up  the  ghost 
with  three  hundred  pounds  in  his  palsied  hands. 
Beattie  at  the  toll-bar,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not 
scorn  silver  fees,  and  as  occasion  warranted  the 
priests  have  doubtless  ranged  in  their  charges  from 
half-a-crown  and  a  glass  of  whiskey  to  a  hundred 
pounds. 

Though  the  toll-bar  only  at  rare  intervals  got 
wealthy  pairs  into  its  clutches,  Murray  had  not 
been  long  installed  in  office  when  pockets  crammed 
with  fees  made  him  waddle  as  heavily  as  a  duck. 
Fifty  marriages  a  month  was  no  uncommon  occur- 
rence at  Gretna  at  that  time,  and  it  was  then  that 
the  mansion  was  built  which  still  stands  about  a 
hundred  yards  on  the  English  side  of  the  Sark. 
The  toll-keeper,  to  whom  it  owes  its  existence, 
erected  it  for  a  hotel  that  would  rival  Gretna  Hall, 
and  prove  irresistible  to  the  couples  who,  on  getting 
married  on  the  Scotch  side,  would  have  to  pass  it 


234  GRETNA   GREEN  REVISITED. 

on  their  return  journey.  But  the  alterations  in  the 
Marriage  Laws  marred  the  new  hotel's  chances,  and 
Murray  found  that  he  had  over-reached  himself. 
Perhaps  one  reason  why  he  no  longer  prospered 
was  because  he  pursued  a  niggardly  policy  with 
the  postilions,  ostlers,  and  other  rapscallions  who 
demanded  a  share  of  the  booty.  The  Langs  knew 
what  they  were  about  far  too  well  to  quarrel  with 
the  post-boys,  and  stories  are  still  current  in  Spring- 
field of  these  faithful  youths  tumbling  their  em- 
ployers into  the  road  rather  than  take  them  to  a 
"  blacksmith  "  with  whom  they  did  not  deal. 

There  is  no  hope  for  Gretna.  Springfield  was 
and  is  the  great  glory  of  its  inhabitants.  Here  ran 
the  great  wall  of  Adrian,  the  scene  of  many  a  tough 
fight  in  the  days  of  stone  weapons  and  skin-clad 
Picts.  The  Debatable  Land,  sung  by  Trouvere  and 
Troubadour,  is  to-day  but  a  sodden  moss,  in  which 
no  King  Arthur  strides  fearfully  away  from  the 
"  grim  lady  "  of  the  bogs  ;  and  moss-troopers,  grim 
and  gaunt  and  terrible,  no  longer  whirl  with  lighted 
firebrands  into  England.  With  a  thousand  stars 
the  placid  moon  lies  long  drawn  out  and  drowned 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Solway,  without  a  lovesick 
maid  to  shed  a  tear ;  the  chariots  that  once  rattled 
and  flashed  along  the  now  silent  road  were  turned 
into  firewood  decades  ago,  and  the  runaways,  from 
a  Prince  of  Capua  to  a  beggar-maid,  are  rotten  and 
forgotten. 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS  MAKE 
THOUGHTFUL  MEN. 

TJrquhart  is  a  boy  who  lives  in  fear  that  his 
friends  and  relations  will  send  him  the  wrong  birth- 
day presents.  Before  his  birthday  came  round  this 
year,  he  dropped  them  pretty  broad  hints  as  to  the 
kind  of  gifts  he  would  prefer,  supposing  they  meant 
to  remember  the  occasion.  He  worked  his  people 
differently,  according  to  the  relationship  that  ex- 
isted between  him  and  them.  Thus  to  his  mother 
he  simply  wrote,  "  A  fishing-rod  is  what  I  want ; '* 
but  to  an  uncle,  from  whom  there  was  only  the 
possibility  of  the  present,  he  said,  "  By  the  way, 
next  Monday  week  is  my  birthday,  and  my  mother 
is  going  to  send  me  a  fishing-rod.  Wouldn't  it  be 
jolly  rot  if  any  other  body  sent  me  a  fishing-rod  1 — 
Your  affectionate  and  studious  nephew,  Thomas 
Urquhart."  To  an  elderly  lady,  with  whom  he  had 
once  spent  part  of  his  summer  holiday,  he  wrote 
"  By  the  bye "  (he  always  came  to  the  point  with 
by  the  bye)  "next  Monday  week  is  my  birthday. 
I  am  wondering  if  anybody  will  send  me  a  cake  like 
the  ones  you  bake  so  beautifully." 

That  lady   should,   of  course,   figuratively  have 


236  THOUGHTFUL  BOYS. 

punched  Urquhart's  head,  but  his  communication 
charmed  her.  She  did  not,  however,  send  him  a 
cake.  He  had  a  letter  from  her  in  a  few  days,  in 
which,  without  referring  to  his  insinuating  remarks 
about  his  birthday  and  her  cakes,  she  expressed  a 
hope  that  he  was  working  hard.  Urquhart  thought 
this  very  promising,  and  sent  a  reply  that  undid 
him.  "I  am  sweating,"  he  said,  "no  end;  and  I 
think  there  is  no  pleasure  like  perusing  books. 
When  the  other  chaps  go  away  to  play,  I  stay  at  the 
school  and  peruse  books."  After  that  Urquhart 
counted  the  old  lady  among  his  certainties,  and  so 
she  was,  after  a  manner.  On  his  birthday  he  re- 
ceived a  gift  from  her,  and  also  a  letter,  in  which 
she  said  that  her  original  intention  had  been  to 
send  him  a  cake.  "  But  your  nice  letter,''  she  went 
on,  "  in  which  you  say  you  are  fond  of  reading,  re- 
minds me  that  you  are  getting  to  be  a  big  boy, 
so  I  send  you  a  book  instead."  Urquhart  anx- 
iously undid  the  brown  paper  in  which  the  book 
was  wrapped.  It  was  a  volume  of  mild  biogra- 
phies, entitled,  "  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful 
Men." 

From  its  first  appearance  among  us,  this  book 
caused  a  certain  amount  of  ill-feeling.  I  learned  by 
accident  that  Urquhart,  on  the  strength  of  the  lady's 
letter,  had  stated  for  a  fact  to  his  comrades  that  she 
was  going  to  send  him  a  cake.  He  had  also  taken 
Fleming  Secundus  to  a  pastry-cook's  in  the  vicinity 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS.  237 

of  the  school,  and  asked  him  to  turn  his  eyes  upon 
a  cake  which  had  the  place  of  honor  in  the  centre  of 
the  window.  Secundus  admitted  with  a  sigh  that  it 
was  a  beauty.  Without  comment  Urquhart  led  him 
to  our  local  confectioner's,  and  pointed  out  another 
cake.  Secundus  again  passed  favorable  criticism, 
the  words  he  used,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  being 
"  Oh,  Crikey ! "  By  this  time  Urquhart  had  ex- 
hausted the  shops  of  an  interesting  kind  in  our 
neighborhood,  and  he  and  his  companion  returned 
to  the  school.  For  a  time  Urquhart  said  nothing, 
but  at  last  he  broke  the  silence.  "  You  saw  yon  two 
cakes  ? "  he  asked  Secundus,  who  replied,  with  a 
smack  of  the  lips,  in  the  affirmative.  "  Then  let  me 
tell  you/'  said  Urquhart,  solemnly,  "  that  the  two  of 
them  rolled  together  don't  come  within  five  miles  of 
the  cake  I'm  to  get  on  my  birthday."  Tremendous 
news  like  this  spreads  through  a  school  like  smoke, 
and  Urquhart  was  courted  as  he  had  never  been 
before.  One  of  the  most  pitiful  cases  of  toadyism 
known  to  me  was  witnessed  that  very  day  in  the 
foot-ball  field.  I  was  playing  in  a  school  match  on 
the  same  side  as  Urquhart  and  a  boy  called  .Cocky 
Jones  by  his  associates  because  of  his  sublime 
impertinence  to  his  master.  While  Urquhart  was 
playing  his  shoe-lace  became  loosened,  and  he 
stooped  to  tie  it.  "  I  say,  Urquhart,"  cried  Cocky, 
11  let  me  do  that  for  you  I "  It  will  thus  be  seen, 
taking  one  thing  with  another,  that  Urquhart's  con- 


238  THOUGHTFUL  BOYS. 

fidence  in  the  old  lady  had  raised  high  hopes.  "  Is 
this  the  day  Urquhart  gets  his  cake  ! "  the  "  fellows  " 
asked  each  other.  Consider  their  indignation  when 
he  got,  instead,  "  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful 
Men."  Secundus  refused  to  speak  to  him  ;  William- 
son, Green,  Bobbins,  Tosh,  and  others  scowled  as  if 
he  had  stolen  their  cake ;  Cocky  Jones  kicked  him 
and  bolted. 

The  boy  who  felt  the  disappointment  most  was, 
however,  Urquhart  himself.  He  has  never  been  a 
shining  light  in  his  classes,  but  that  day  he  stum- 
bled over  the  Latin  grammar  at  every  step.  From 
nine  to  ten  he  was  quiet  and  sullen,  like  one  felled 
by  the  blow.  It  is,  I  believe,  notorious  that  in  a  fair 
fight  Cocky  Jones  could  not  stand  up  before  Ur- 
quhart for  a  moment ;  yet,  when  Cocky  kicked, 
Urquhart  did  not  pursue  him.  Between  ten  and 
eleven  Urquhart  had  a  cynical  countenance,  which 
implied  that  his  faith  in  humanity  was  gone.  By 
twelve  he  looked  fierce,  as  if  he  meant  to  write  his 
benefactress,  and  give  her  a  piece  of  his  mind.  I 
saw  him  during  the  dinner-hour  in  hot  controversy 
with  Green  and  Tosh,  who  were  evidently  saying 
that  he  had  deceived  them.  From  this  time  he  was 
pugnacious,  like  one  determined  to  have  it  out  with 
somebody,  and  as  he  can  use  his  fists,  this  mood 
made  his  companions  more  respectful.  Fleming 
Secundus  is  his  particular  chum,  and  after  the  first 
bitterness  of  disappointment,  Secundus  returned  to 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS.  239 

his  allegiance.  He  offered  to  mark  Cocky  Jones's 
face,  I  fancy,  for  I  saw  him  in  full  pursuit  of  Cocky 
in  the  playground.  Having  made  it  up,  he  and  Ur- 
quhart  then  discussed  the  matter  calmly  in  a  corner. 
They  had  several  schemes  before  them.  One  was 
to  send  the  book  back,  saying  that  Urquhart  had 
already  a  copy  of  it. 

"  But,  I  haven't,"  said  Urquhart. 

"  Williamson  has  read  it,  though,"  said  Secundus, 
as  if  that  was  much  the  same  thing. 

"  But  though  we  did  send  it  back,"  Urquhart  re- 
monstrated, "  the  chances  are  that  she  would  send 
me  another  book  in  its  place." 

His  faith,  you  see,  had  quite  gone. 

"You  could  tell  her  you  had  got  such  a  lot  of 
books  that  you  would  prefer  a  cake  for  a  change." 

Urquhart  said  that  would  be  putting  it  too  plain. 

"  "Well,  then,"  said  Secundus,  "  even  though  she 
did  send  you  another  book,  it  would  perhaps  be  a 
better  one  than  that.  Tell  her  to  send  'The  Boy 
Crusoes.'    I  haven't  read  it." 

"  I  have,  though,"  said  Urquhart. 

"  Well,  she  could  send  '  The  Prairie  Hunters.' " 

"  She's  not  the  kind,"  said  Urquhart.  "  It's  always 
these  improving  books  she  buys." 

Ultimately  the  two  boys  agreed  upon  a  line  of 
action  which  was  hardly  what  the  reader  might  ex- 
pect. Urquhart  wrote  letters  of  thanks  to  all  those 
who  had  remembered  his  birthday,  and  to  the  old 


240  THOUGHTFUL  BOYS. 

lady  the  letter  which  passed  through  my  hands  read 
as  follows : 

"Deak  Miss :  I  sit  down  to  thank  you  very 

faithfully  for  your  favor,  namely,  the  book  entitled 
'  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men.'  It  is  a 
jolly  book,  and  I  like  it  no  end  better  than  a  cake, 
which  would  soon  be  ate  up,  and  then  nothing  to  show 
for  it.  I  am  reading  your  beautiful  present  regular, 
and  hoping  it  will  make  me  a  thoughtful  boy  so  as 
I  may  be  a  thoughtful  man,  no  more  at  present, 

"  I  am,  Dear  Miss , 

"Your  very  sincere  friend, 

"  Thomas  Ukquhakt." 

Our  boys  generally  end  up  their  letters  in  some 
such  way  as  that,  it  being  a  method  of  making  their 
epistles  cover  a  little  more  paper.  As  I  feared, 
Urquhart's  letter  was  merely  diplomatic.  He  had 
not  come  around  to  the  opinion  that  after  all  a 
book  was  better  than  the  cake,  but  he  had  seen  the 
point  of  Fleming's  sudden  suggestion,  that  the  best 
plan  would  be  to  "  keep  in  "  with  his  benefactress. 
Secundus  had  shown  that  if  Miss  M was  both- 
ered about  this  year's  present,  she  would  be  less  like- 
ly to  send  anything  next  year,  and  this  sank  into 
Urquhart's  mind.  Hence  the  tone  of  his  letter  of 
thanks. 

It  remains  to  follow  the  inglorious  career  of  this 
copy  of  "  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men." 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS.  241 

First,  Urquhart  was  openly  contemptuous  of  it,  and 
there  seemed  a  probability  of  its  only  being  used  as 
a  missile.  Soon,  however,  he  dropped  hints  that  it 
was  a  deeply  interesting  story,  following  these  hints 
up  with  the  remark  that  he  was  open  to  offers.  He 
and  Fleming  Secundus  had  quite  a  tiff  about  it, 
though  they  are  again  good  friends.  Secundus,  it 
appears,  had  gone  the  length  of  saying  that  it  was 
worth  a  shilling,  and  had  taken  it  to  his  bed  to  make 
sure  of  this.  Urquhart  considered  it  as  good  as 
bought,  but  Secundus  returned  it  to  him  next  day. 
Examination  of  the  book  roused  the  suspicions  of 
Urquhart,  who  charged  Secundus  with  having  read 
it  by  peeping  between  the  pages,  which,  to  enhance 
its  commercial  value,  had  remained  uncut.  This 
Secundus  denied,  but  he  had  left  the  mark  of  his 
thumb  on  it.  Eventually  the  book  was  purchased 
by  Cocky  Jones,  but  not  without  a  row.  Cocky  went 
up  to  Urquhart  one  day  and  held  out  a  shilling, 
saying  that  he  would  give  it  for  "  Thoughtful  Boys 
Make  Thoughtful  Men."  The  owner  wanted  to  take 
the  shilling  at  once,  and  give  up  the  book  later  in 
the  day,  but  Cocky  insisted  on  its  being  put  into  his 
hands  immediately.  That  Jones  should  be  anxious 
to  become  the  possessor  of  an  improving  book  sur- 
prised Urquhart,  but  in  his  haste  to  make  sure  of 
the  shilling,  he  handed  over  "  Thoughtful  Boys 
Make   Thoughtful  Men."     "Within  an  hour  of  the 

striking  of  this  bargain  a  rumor  reached  Urquhart's 
10 


242  THOUGHTFUL  BOYS. 

ears  that  Cocky  had  resold  the  work  for  one  and 
sixpence.  Inquiries  were  instituted,  which  led  to  a 
discovery.  At  our  school  there  is  a  youth  called 
Dicky  Jenkinson,  who,  though  not  exactly  a  thought- 
ful boy,  has  occasional  aspirations  in  that  direction. 
Being  for  the  moment  wealthy,  Jenkinson  had  re- 
marked, in  the  presence  of  Cocky,  that  one  and  six- 
pence would  not  be  too  much  to  give  for  Urquhart's 
copy  of  "  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men.5' 
Feeling  his  way  cautiously,  Cocky  asked  whether  he 
meant  that  the  book  would  be  cheap  at  one  and  six- 
pence to  anybody  who  wanted  it,  or  whether  he 
(Dicky)  was  willing  and  able  to  expend  that  sum  on 
it.  Thus  brought  to  bay,  Jenkinson  solemnly 
declared  that  he  meant  to  make  Urquhart  an  offer 
that  very  day.  Cocky  made  off  to  think  this  matter 
over,  for  he  was  aware  that  the  book  had  been 
already  offered  to  Fleming  Secundus  for  a  shilling. 
He  saw  that  by  taking  prompt  action  he  might  clear 
sixpence  before  bedtime.  Unfortunately,  he  was 
not  able  to  buy  the  book  from  Urquhart,  for  he  was 
destitute  of  means,  and  he  knew  it  would  be  mere  fol- 
ly to  ask  Urquhart  for  credit.  In  these  painful  cir- 
cumstances he  took  Bobbins  into  his  confidence. 
At  first  he  merely  asked  Bobbins  to  lend  him  a 
shilling,  and  Bobbins  merely  replied  that  he  would 
do  no  such  thing.  To  show  that  the  money  would 
be  returned  promptly,  Cocky  then  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it,  after  which  Bobbins  was  ready  to  lend 


THOUGHTFUL  BOYS.  243 

him  an  ear.  Eobbins,  however,  stipulated  that  he 
should  get  half  of  the  spoils. 

Cocky,  as  has  been  seen,  got  the  book  from 
Urquhart,  but  when  it  came  to  the  point,  Jenkinson 
was  reluctant  to  part  with  the  one  and  sixpence. 
In  this  extremity  Cocky  appealed  to  Eobbins,  who 
at  once  got  hold  of  Dicky  and  threatened  to  slaugh- 
ter him  if  he  did  not  keep  to  his  bargain.  Thus 
frightened,  Jenkinson  bought  the  book. 

On  hearing  of  this,  Urquhart  considered  that  he 
had  been  swindled,  and  set  off  in  quest  of  Cocky. 
That  boy  was  not  to  be  found,  however,  until  his 
threepence  had  disappeared  in  tarts.  I  got  to  know 
of  this  affair  through  Bobbins'  backing  up  of  Cocky, 
and  telling  Urquhart  that  nobody  was  afraid  of  him. 
A  ring  was  immediately  formed  round  Urquhart  and 
Eobbins,  which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  breaking  up. 

Since  I  sat  down  to  write  the  adventures  of 
"  Thoughtful  Boys  Make  Thoughtful  Men,"  I  have 
looked  through  the  book.  Jenkinson  read  several 
chapters  of  it,  and  then  offered  it  for  next  to  noth- 
ing to  anybody  who  had  a  fancy  for  being  thought- 
ful. As  no  bidder  was  forthcoming,  he  in  the  end 
lost  heart  and  presented  it  to  the  school  library. 
A  gentleman  who  visited  us  lately,  and  looked 
through  the  library,  picked  it  up,  and  said  that  he 
was  delighted  to  observe  that  the  boys  kept  their 
books  so  clean.  Yet  not  so  long  ago  he  was  a  boy 
at  our  school  himself. 


NDINTPILE  PONT(?). 

"What  would  you  say,"  wrote  a  certain  editor  to 
me  last  Friday,  *  to  doing  next  a  paper  on  Ndint- 
pile  Pont ! " 

I  like  the  suggestion,  but  I  can't  make  out  wliat 
Ndintpile  Pont  is.  This  rather  handicaps  me,  es- 
pecially as  I  have  a  presentiment  that  it  is  not 
Ndintpile  Pont  at  all.  It  looks  like  Ndintpile  Pont. 
The  editor  in. question's  writing  appears  very  easy 
to  decipher  if  you  hold  it  a  little  bit  away,  but,  like 
the  multiplication  table,  it  is  not  so  simple  as  it 
looks.  The  annoying  thing  is  that  he  has  written 
Ndintpile  Pont  with  one  dash  of  the  pen,  as  if  it 
were  so  well  known  that  I  could  not  possibly  go 
wrong  with  it.  Thus  I  have  felt  reluctant  to  write 
and  ask  him  whether  it  really  is  Ndintpile  Pont.  I 
don't  want  him  to  think  that  I  am  not  well  up  in  the 
topics  of  the  day.  It  would  be  injurious  to  my 
standing  in  the  profession  and  might  affect  my 
balance  at  the  bank.  Always  make  it  a  rule,  never 
to  show  your  ignorance ;  wear  a  confident  air,  and 
convince  the  editor  that  you  are  just  the  man  he  is 
looking  for. 

But  this  unfortunate  affair  threatens  to  prove  too 


NDINTPILE  POJSfT(f).  245 

much  for  me.  I  have  shown  the  editor's  letter  to 
several  of  my  friends.  I  do  this  with  a  craft  that  is 
not  natural  to  me.  Instead  of  asking  them  openly 
if  they  can  make  out  what  these  words  are  that  look 
like  Ndintpile  Pont,  I  fling  them  the  letter  with  af- 
fected carelessness,  and  say,  "  By  the  way,  what  do 
you  think  of  that  for  the  subject  of  an  article !  " 
While  they  read  I  put  my  hands  over  my  face,  as  if 
I  were  thinking  about  something  else,  and  watch 
them  through  my  fingers.  They  take  Ndintpile 
Pont  in  different  ways.  Sometimes  they  turn  the 
letter  upside  down  (after  carefully  glancing  at  me 
to  see  if  I  am  observing  them)  or  they  try  to  read  it 
sideways.  This  is  satisfactory  so  far,  for  it  shows 
that  they  are  as  much  puzzled  as  I  am,  but  it  is  no 
assistance.  They  end  by  asking  me  what  this  sub- 
ject is  that  the  editor  proposes.  Of  course  this  foils 
me,  and  I  have  to  reply  in  a  careless  tone,  "  Oh, 
Ndintpile  Pont,"  implying  that  they  must  know 
what  Ndintpile  Pont  is.  One  had  the  honesty  to 
say  he  never  heard  of  it,  but  most  of  them  say, 
44  Oh,"  or  "  Ah,"  as  if  they  understood  thoroughly, 
and  a  few  have  had  the  hardihood  to  ask  me  how  I 
meant  to  treat  it.  I  reply,  blandly,  "  In  the  usual 
way,"  and  that  seems  to  satisfy  them.  Others  to 
whom  I  have  shown  the  letter  say  it  is  not  u  Ndint- 
pile Pont,"  but  44  Henderson's  Book,"  and  that  has 
rather  startled  me,  for  on  re-examination  aPont" 
might  be  4<  Book,"  and  as  for  44  Ndintpile  "  it  might 


246  NBINTPILE  PONT  ( f ). 

be  anything.  The  more  you  look  at  it  the  more  yon 
feel  this.  Suppose  it  is  Henderson's  Book,  who  is 
Henderson,  and  where  is  his  book  1  When  they  ask 
me  this,  I  say  that  Henderson  is  a  rising  writer,  but 
I  am  less  ready  with  an  answer  when  I  put  the 
question  to  myself. 

One  acquaintance,  after  reading  the  letter,  said 
that  he  remembered  an  article  on  the  same  subject 
the  week  before  in  the  Daily  News.  I  brightened 
up  at  this,  and  asked  him  what  point  of  view  the 
Daily  News  looked  at  it  from.  His  way  of  taking 
my  question  made  me  suspect  that  he  was  like  the 
others,  too  self-satisfied  to  admit  that  he  could  not 
make  the  writing  out.  He  replied,  however,  that 
the  Daily  Neivs  treated  it,  so  far  as  he  could  recol- 
lect, in  its  political  aspect,  and  presumed  that  I 
would  discuss  it  rather  in  its  social  bearing.  I  ad- 
mitted that  that  was  my  intention,  and  after  he  had 
gone  I  went  to  the  office  of  the  Daily  Neivs  and  ex- 
amined the  file.  I  could  not,  however,  discover  an 
article  on  Ndintpile  Pont,  or  on  anything  at  all  like 
it.  Had  I  been  able  to  trust  my  friend,  my  position 
would  now  have  been  improved,  for  I  would  at  least 
have  known  that  the  subject  was  one  which  could 
be  treated  from  both  a  political  and  a  social  stand- 
point. On  returning  home  I  spread  the  letter  out 
before  me,  and  after  looking  at  it  for  a  long  time, 
made  up  my  mind  that  it  was  not  "Pont,"  but 
"  Polit."    This  doubtless  was  short  for  "  Political." 


NDINTPIL  E  PONT  ( f ).  247 

Next  morning'  I  looked  at  it  again,  and  then  it 
seemed  more  like  "  Punt." 

The  last  man  I  showed  the  letter  to  must  have 
thought  it  was  a  lady's  name,  for  he  said,  "  Do  you 
think  she'll  be  pleased  at  your  writing  an  article  on 
her  *? "  Though  this  question  took  me  aback,  I  re- 
plied, with  considerable  presence  of  mind,  that  I 
was  sure  she  would  like  it ;  and  then  he  asked  me  if 
I  knew  her  personally.  I  said  I  had  known  her 
intimately  for  years,  and  he  said  was  she  not  a  bit 
of  an  invalid,  and  I  said  one  of  her  lungs  was  com- 
pletely gone.  That  evening  I  drew  up  a  list  of  all 
the  celebrated  women  still  alive  that  I  could  think 
of,  and  compared  the  names  with  Ndintpile  Pont. 
The  one  that  came  nearest  it  was  Mrs.  Oliphant. 
The  last  four  letters  of  her  name  are  not  so  unlike 
Pont  when  you  examine  them  with  a  hope  that  they 
are  like  it.  Tack  the  "  ile  "  of  what  seems  to  be  the 
first  word  on  to  the  "  Pont,"  and  you  get  "  Ilepont." 
Then  look  at  Ilepont  as  the  editor  has  written  it, 
and  it  might  easily  be  Oliphant.  That  leaves 
"  Ndintp "  unaccounted  for ;  but,  after  all,  is  it 
Nclintp?  Is  it  not  more  like  Margaret,  which  is 
Mrs.  Oliphant's  Christian  name  t  I  sat  down  to 
write  about  Mrs.  Oliphant  with  a  light  heart,  but 
before  the  first  paragraph  was  finished  I  became 
doubtful  again.  Was  Mrs.  Oliphant  an  invalid  ? 
She  is  not,  so  far  as  I  know;  indeed,  if  she  were, 
she  could  not  write  so  much.    On  the  whole,  it 


248  NDINTPILE  PONT  {?). 

seemed  rather  a  risky  thing  to  trust  to  its  being 
Mrs.  Oliphant.  More  likely  Ndintpile  Pont  is  the 
name  assumed  by  some  lady  writer.  If  so,  it  is 
a  striking  pseudonym.  I  could,  of  course,  write  a 
fancy  article  about  her,  remarking  that  it  is  quite 
unnecessary  to  tell  the  intelligent  reader  what 
Ndintpile  Pont's  real  name  is,  for  that  is  an  open 
secret.  Writers  do  such  things,  I  am  told,  and  it 
always  flatters  a  reader  to  call  him  intelligent  and 
take  for  granted  that  he  knows  what  he  does  not 
know. 

Having  become  despondent,  I  have  confessed  to 
a  few  particular  friends  that  the  editor  has  contrived 
to  puzzle  me.  Looking  at  his  suggestion  in  the 
light  of  that  admission,  they  have  all  agreed  on  one 
point,  that,  whatever  it  is,  it  is  certainly  not  Ndint- 
pile Pont.  One  suggests  that  it  is  something  Pond, 
and  asks  if  I  know  anything  about  a  pond.  I  re- 
member once  falling  into  one,  so  he  thinks  the 
editor  wants  me  to  describe  what  it  felt  like.  De- 
pend upon  it,  he  says,  the  editor  wants  to  know 
from  one  who  has  really  gone  through  the  experi- 
ence what  the  sensation  of  being  nearly  drowned  is 
like.  They  say  it  is  a  delightful  death,  but  is  it  * 
I  cannot  think  it  is  Pond,  however,  for,  in  the  first 
place,  the  editor  does  not  know  that  I  once  fell  into 
one,  and,  besides,  I  was  not  nearly  drowned.  It  was 
a  mere  puddle  of  water,  and  I  was  quite  surprised 
to  learn  afterward  that  it  was  a  pond. 


NDINTPILE  PONT  ( ? ).  249 

It  might  certainly  be  Punt.  I  am  living  in  a 
houseboat  at  present,  and,  of  course,  am  frequently 
in  punts.  Is  it  "  Fishing  off  a  Punt,"  or  "  A  Day  in 
a  Punt,"  or  "  Our  Houseboat  Punt  ?  "  Somehow  it 
is  difficult  to  feel  certain  that  it  is. 

There  are  points  of  view  from  which  it  looks  not 
unlike  the  name  of  a  quack  medicine  for  restoring 
the  hair  or  making  your  child  cry  out  in  the  night. 
Or  is  it  a  new  soap  1  If  so,  I  prefer  it  to  any  other, 
and  it  is  matchless  for  the  hands  and  complexion. 

At  all  events,  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong  about 
it.  It  sounds  rather  like  treason.  Probably  I  had 
better  leave  it  alone.  I  have  thought  it  over  until 
the  houseboat  is  going  round  and  round,  so  my  most 
honest  course  seems  now  to  be  to  write  to  the  editor, 
saying  that  I  won't  be  able  to  do  an  article  this 
month,  as  I  can't  make  out  the  subject. 


TO    THE    INFLUENZA. 

The  time  has  come  for  you  to  leave  this  house. 
Seventeen  days  ago  you  foisted  yourself  upon  me, 
and  since  then  we  have  been  together  night  and  day. 
You  were  unwelcome  and  uninvited,  and  you  made 
yourself  intensely  disagreeable.  We  wrestled,  you 
and  I,  but  you  attacked  me  unawares  in  the  back, 
and  you  threw  me.  Then,  like  the  ungenerous  foe 
that  you  are,  you  struck  me  while  I  was  down.  How- 
ever, your  designs  have  failed.  I  struggle  to  my 
feet  and  order  you  to  withdraw.  Nay,  withdraw  is 
too  polite  a  word.  Your  cab  is  at  the  door  ;  get  out. 
But,  stop,  a  word  with  you  before  you  go. 

Most  of  your  hosts,  I  fancy,  run  you  out  of  their 
houses  without  first  saying  what  they  think  of  you. 
Their  one  desire  is  to  be  rid  of  you.  Perhaps  they 
are  afraid  to  denounce  you  to  your  face.  I  want, 
however,  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been  looking  for- 
ward to  this  moment  ever  since  you  put  me  to  bed. 
I  said  little  while  I  was  there,  but  I  thought  a  good 
deal,  and  most  of  my  thoughts  were  of  you.  You 
fancied  yourself  invisible,  but  I  saw  you  glaring  at 
me,  and  I  clenched  my  fists  beneath  the  blankets.  I 
could  paint  your  portrait.    You  are  very  tall  and 


TO   THE  INFLUENZA.  251 

stout,  with  a  black  beard,  and  a  cruel,  unsteady  eye, 
and  you  have  a  way  of  crackling  your  fingers  while 
you  exult  in  your  power.  I  used  to  lie  watching 
you  as  you  lolled  in  my  cane-chair.  At  first  it  was 
empty,  but  I  felt  that  you  were  in  it,  and  gradually 
you  took  shape.  I  could  hear  your  fingers  crackling 
and  the  chair  creak  as  you  moved  in  it.  If  I  sat  up 
in  fear,  you  disappeared,  but  as  soon  as  I  lay  back, 
there  you  were  again.  I  know  now  that  in  a  sense 
you  were  a  creature  of  my  imagination.  I  have  dis- 
covered something  more.  I  know  why  you  seemed 
tall  and  stout  and  bearded,  and  why  I  heard  your 
fingers  crackling. 

Fever — one  of  your  dastard  weapons — was  no 
doubt  what  set  me  drawing  portraits,  but  why  did  I 
see  you  a  big  man  with  a  black  beard  ?  Because 
long  ago,  when  the  world  was  young,  I  had  a  school- 
master of  that  appearance.  He  crackled  his  fingers 
too.  I  had  forgotten  him  utterly.  He  had  gone 
from  me  with  the  love  of  climbing  for  crows'  nests — 
which  I  once  thought  would  never  die — but  during 
some  of  these  seventeen  days  of  thirty-six  hours  each 
I  suppose  I  have  been  a  boy  again.  Yet  I  had  many 
schoolmasters,  all  sure  at  first  that  they  could  make 
something  of  me,  all  doleful  when  they  found  that  I 
had  conscientious  scruples  against  learning.  Why  do 
I  merge  you  into  him  of  the  crackling  fingers  ?  I 
know.  It  is  because  in  mediaeval  times  I  hated  him 
as  I  hate  you.     No  others  have  I  loathed  with  any 


252  TO  THE  INFLUENZA. 

intensity,  but  he  alone  of  my  masters  refused  to  be 
reconciled  to  my  favorite  method  of  study,  which 
consisted,  I  remember  (without  shame)  in  glancing 
at  my  tasks,  as  I  hopped  and  skipped  to  school. 
Sometimes  I  hopped  and  skipped,  but  did  not  arrive 
at  school  in  time  to  take  solid  part  in  lessons,  and 
this  grieved  the  soul  of  him  who  wanted  to  be  my 
instructor.  So  we  differed,  as  Gladstonian  and  Con- 
servative on  the  result  of  the  Parnell  Commission, 
and  my  teacher,  being  in  office,  troubled  me  not  a 
little.  I  confess  I  hated  him,  and  while  I  sat  glumly 
in  his  room,  whence  the  better  boys  had  retired, 
much  solace  I  found  in  wondering  how  I  would  slay 
him,  supposing  I  had  a  loaded  pistol,  a  sword,  and  a 
hatchet,  and  he  had  only  one  life.  I  schemed  to  be 
a  dark,  morose  pirate  of  fourteen,  so  that  I  might 
capture  him,  even  at  his  black-board,  and  make  him 
walk  the  plank.  I  was  Judge  Lynch,  and  he  was 
the  man  at  the  end  of  the  rope.  I  charged  upon 
him  on  horseback,  and  cut  him  down.  I  challenged 
him  to  single  combat,  and  then  I  was  Ivanhoe.  I 
even  found  pleasure  in  conceiving  myself  shouting 
"  Crackle-fingers  "  after  him,  and  then  bolting  round 
a  corner.  You  must  see  now  why  I  pictured  you 
heavy  and  dark  and  bearded.  You  are  the  school- 
master of  my  later  years.  I  lay  in  bed  and  gloried 
in  the  thought  that  presently  I  would  be  up,  and 
fall  upon  you  like  a  body  of  cavalry. 

What  did  you  think  of  my  doctor  1    You  need  not 


TO  THE  INFLUENZA.  253 

answer,  for  I  know  that  you  disliked  him.  You  and 
I  were  foes,  and  I  was  getting  the  worst  of  it  when 
he  walked  in  and  separated  the  combatants.  His 
entrance  was  pleasant  to  me.  He  showed  a  con- 
tempt for  you  that  perhaps  he  did  not  feel,  and  he 
used  to  take  your  chair.  There  were  days  when  I 
wondered  at  his  audacity  in  doing  that,  but  I  liked 
it,  too,  and  by  and  by  I  may  tell  him  why  I  often 
asked  him  to  sit  there.  He  was  your  doctor  as  well 
as  mine,  and  every  time  he  said  that  I  was  a  little 
bettor,  I  knew  he  meant  that  you  were  a  little  weak- 
er. You  knew  it,  too,  for  I  saw  you  scowling  after 
he  had  gone.  My  doctor  is  also  my  friend,  and  so, 
when  I  am  well,  I  say  things  against  him  behind  his 
back.  Then  I  see  his  weaknesses  and  smile  comfort- 
ably at  them  with  his  other  friends — whom  I  also 
discuss  with  him.  But  while  you  had  me  down  he 
was  another  man.  He  became,  as  it  were,  a  foot 
taller,  and  I  felt  that  he  alone  of  men  had  anything 
to  say  that  was  worth  listening  to.  Other  friends 
came  to  look  curiously  at  me  and  talk  of  politics,  or 
Stanley,  or  on  other  frivolous  topics,  but  he  spoke 
of  my  case,  which  was  the  great  affair.  I  was  not, 
in  my  own  mind,  a  patient  for  whom  he  was  merely 
doing  his  best ;  I  was  entirely  in  his  hands.  I  was 
a  business,  and  it  rested  with  him  whether  I  was  to 
be  wound  up  or  carried  on  as  usual.  I  daresay  I 
tried  to  be  pleasant  with  him — which  is  not  my  way 
— took  his  prescriptions  as  if  I  rather  enjoyed  them, 


254  TO  THE  INFLUENZA. 

and  held  his  thermometer  in  my  mouth  as  though  it 
were  a  new  kind  of  pipe.  This  was  diplomacy.  I 
have  no  real  pleasure  in  being  fed  with  a  spoon,  nor 
do  I  intend  in  the  future  to  smoke  thermometers. 
But  I  knew  that  I  must  pander  to  my  doctor's  weak- 
ness if  he  was  to  take  my  side  against  you.  Now 
that  I  am  able  to  snap  my  fingers  at  you  I  am  look- 
ing forward  to  sneering  once  more  at  him.  Just  at 
this  moment,  however,  I  would  prefer  to  lay  a  sword 
flat  upon  his  shoulders,  and  say,  gratefully,  "  Arise, 
Sir  James."  He  has  altered  the  faces  of  the  various 
visitors  who  whispered  to  each  other  in  my  presence, 
and  nodded  at  me  and  said  aloud  that  I  would  soon 
be  right  again,  and  then  said  something  else  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door.  He  has  opened  my  windows 
and  set  the  sparrows  a-chirping  again,  and  he  has 
turned  on  the  sunshine.  Lastly,  he  has  enabled  me 
to  call  your  cab.    I  am  done.    Get  out. 


FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS. 

The  following  is  a  word-puzzle.  It  narrates  the 
adventures  of  a  four-in-hand  novelist  while  trying  to 
lose  his  reputation.  Competitors  do  not  require  to 
be  told  that  a  four-in-hand  novelist  is  a  writer  of 
fiction  who  keeps  four  serial  tales  running  abreast 
in  the  magazines.  The  names  of  specimen  four-in- 
hand  novelists  will  recur  readily  to  every  one.  The 
puzzle  is  to  discover  who  this  particular  novelist  is ; 
the  description,  as  will  be  observed,  answering  to 
quite  a  number  of  them. 

A  few  years  ago,  if  any  one  in  Fleet  Street  had 
said  that  the  day  would  come  when  I  would  devote 
my  time  in  trying  to  lose  my  reputation,  I  would 
have  smiled  incredulously.  That  was  before  I  had 
a  reputation.  To  be  as  statistical  as  time  will  allow 
— for  before  I  go  to  bed  I  have  seven  and  a  half 
yards  of  fiction  to  write— it  took  me  fifteen  years' 
hard  work  to  acquire  a  reputation.  For  two  years 
after  that  I  worked  as  diligently  to  retain  it,  not 
being  quite  certain  whether  it  was  really  there,  and 
for  the  last  five  years  I  have  done  my  best  to  get  rid 
of  it.     Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson  has  a  story  of  a  dyna- 


256  FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS. 

miter  who  tried  in  vain  to  leave  an  infernal  machine 
anywhere.  It  was  always  returned  to  him  as  soon 
as  he  dropped  it,  or  just  as  he  was  making  off.  My 
reputation  is  as  difficult  to  lose.  I  have  not  given 
up  the  attempt  yet,  but  I  am  already  of  opinion  that 
it  is  even  harder  to  lose  a  reputation  in  letters 
than  to  make  one.  My  colleagues  will  bear  me  out 
in  this. 

If  I  recollect  aright — for  I  have  published  so  much 
that  my  works  are  now  rather  mixed  up  in  my  mind, 
and  I  have  no  time  to  verify  anything — the  first 
place  I  thought  to  leave  my  reputation  in  was  a 
volume  of  pot-boilers,  which  I  wrote  many  years  ago^ 
for  an  obscure  publication.  At  that  time  I  was  work- 
ing hard  for  a  reputation  elsewhere,  and  these  short 
stories  were  only  scribbled  off  for  a  livelihood.  My 
publisher  heard  of  them  recently,  and  offered  me  a 
hundred  pounds  for  liberty  to  republish  them  in 
book  form.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  they  were  very 
poor  stuff,  but  he  said  that  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it ;  I  had  a  reputation  now,  and  they  would 
sell.  With  certain  misgivings— for  I  was  not  hard- 
ened yet — I  accepted  my  publisher's  terms,  and  the 
book  was  soon  out.  The  first  book  I  published, 
which  was  much  the  best  thing  I  ever  wrote,  was 
only  reviewed  by  three  journals,  of  which  two  were 
provincial  weeklies.  They  said  it  showed  signs  of 
haste,  though  every  sentence  in  it  was  a  labor.  I 
sent  copies  of  it  to  six  or  seven  distinguished  liter- 


'  FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS.  257 

ary  men — some  of  whom  are  four-in-hand  now — and 
two  of  them  acknowledged  receipt  of  it,  though 
neither  said  he  had  read  it.  My  pot-boilers,  how- 
ever, had  not  been  out  many  weeks  before  the  first 
edition  was  exhausted.  The  book  was  reviewed 
everywhere,  and,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  enthusias- 
tically lauded.  It  showed  a  distinct  advance  on  all 
my  previous  efforts.  They  were  model  stories  of 
their  kind.  They  showed  a  mature  hand.  The  wit 
was  sparkling.  There  were  pages  in  the  book  that 
no  one  could  read  without  emotion.  In  the  old  days 
I  was  paid  for  these  stories  at  the  rate  of  five  shil- 
lings the  thousand  words ;  but  they  would  make  a 
reputation  in  themselves  now.  It  has  been  thus  all 
along.  I  drop  my  reputation  into  every  book  I  write 
now,  but  there  is  no  getting  rid  of  it.  The  critics 
and  the  public  return  it  to  me,  remarking  that  it 
grows  bigger. 

I  tried  to  lose  my  reputation  in  several  other 
books  of  the  same  kind,  and  always  with  the  same 
result.  Barnacles  are  nothing  to  a  literary  repu- 
tation. Then  I  tried  driving  four-in-hand.  There 
are  now  only  five  or  six  of  us  who  are  four-in-hand 
novelists,  but  there  are  also  four-in-hand  essayists, 
four-in-hand  critics,  etc.,  and  we  all  work  on  the 
same  principle.  Every  one  of  us  is  trying  to  shake 
himself  free  of  his  reputation.  We  novelists  have, 
perhaps,   the    best    chance,   for    there  are  so  few 

writers  of  fiction  who  have  a  reputation  to  lose  that 
17 


258  FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS. 

all  the  magazine  editors  come  to  us  for  a  serial  tale. 
Next  year  I  expect  to  be  six-in-hand,  for  the  pro- 
vincial weeklies  want  me  as  well  as  the  magazines. 
Any  mere  outsider  would  say  I  was  safe  to  get  rid 
of  my  reputation  this  year,  for  I  am  almost  beating 
the  record  in  the  effort.  A  novelist  of  repute,  who 
did  not  want  to  lose  his  reputation,  would  not 
think  of  writing  more  than  one  story  at  a  time,  and 
he  would  take  twelve  months,  at  least,  to  do  it. 
That  is  not  my  way.  Hitherto,  though  I  have 
been  a  member  of  the  literary  four-in-hand  club,  I 
have  always  been  some  way  ahead  with  at  least 
two  of  my  tales  before  they  begin  to  appear  in 
serial  form.  You  may  give  up  the  attempt  to  lose 
your  reputation,  however,  if  you  do  not  set  about 
it  more  thoroughly  than  that ;  and  the  four  novels 
which  I  began  in  January  in  two  English  maga- 
zines, one  American  magazine,  and  an  illustrated 
paper,  were  all  commenced  in  the  second  week  of 
December  (I  had  finished  two  novels  in  the  last 
week  of  November).  My  original  plan  was  to  take 
them  day  about,  doing  about  four  chapters  of  each 
a  month ;  but  to  give  my  reputation  a  still  better 
chance  of  absconding,  I  now  write  them  at  any 
time.  Nowadays  I  would  never  think  of  working 
out  my  plot  beforehand.  My  thinking  begins 
when  I  take  up  my  pen  to  write,  and  ends  when  I 
lay  it  down,  or  even  before  that.  In  one  of  my 
stories  this  year  I  made  my  hero  save  the  heroine 


FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS.  259 

from  a  burning  house.  Had  I  done  that  in  the  old 
days  they  would  have  ridiculed  me,  but  now  they 
say  I  reveal  fresh  talent  in  the  delightful  way  in 
which  I  retell  a  story  that  has  no  doubt  been  told 
before.  The  beaten  tracks,  it  is  remarked,  are  the 
best  to  tread  when  the  public  has  such  a  charming 
guide  as  myself.  My  second  novel  opens  with  a 
shipwreck,  and  I  am  nearly  three  chapters  in  getting 
my  principal  characters  into  the  boats.  In  my 
first  books  I  used  to  guard  carefully  against  the 
introduction  of  material  that  did  not  advance  the 
story,  yet  at  that  time  I  was  charged  with  "pad- 
ding." In  this  story  of  the  shipwreck  there  is  so 
much  padding  that  I  could  blush — if  I  had  not 
given  all  that  up — to  think  of  it.  Instead  of  con- 
fining myself  to  my  own  characters,  I  describe  all 
the  passengers  in  the  vessel — telling  what  they 
were  like  in  appearance,  and  what  was  their  occu- 
pation, and  what  they  were  doing  there.  Then, 
when  the  shipwreck  comes,  I  drown  them  one  by 
one.  By  one  means  or  another,  I  contrive  to  get 
six  chapters  out  of  that  shipwreck,  which  is  fol- 
lowed by  two  chapters  of  agony  in  an  open  boat, 
which  I  treat  as  if  it  were  a  novelty  in  fiction,  and 
that,  again,  leads  up  to  a  chapter  on  the  uncertainty 
of  life.  Most  flagrant  padding  of  all  is  the  con- 
versation. It  always  takes  my  characters  at  least 
two  pages  to  say  anything.  They  approach  the 
point  in  this  fashion  : 


260  FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS. 

Tom  walked  excitedly  into  the  room,  in  which 
Peter  was  awaiting  him.  The  two  men  looked  at 
each  other. 

"  You  wanted  to  see  me  ?  "  Tom  said  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  slowly,  "  I  wanted  to  see  you." 

Tom  looked  at  the  other  uneasily. 

"  Why  did  you  want  to  see  me  1 "  he  asked,  after  a 
pause. 

"I  shall  tell  you,"  replied  Peter,  pointing  to  a 
chair. 

Tom  sat  down,  and  seemed  about  to  speak.  But 
he  changed  his  mind.  Peter  looked  at  him  curi- 
ously. 

"  Perhaps,"  Peter  said  at  last,  "  you  know  my  rea- 
sons for  requesting  an  interview  with  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  do,"  answered  Tom. 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  could  be  distinctly  heard. 

"  You  have  no  idea  ?  "  inquired  Peter. 

"  I  have  no  idea,"  replied  Tom. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  asked  the  older  man,  a  little 
nervously,  "that  when  old  John  Vansittart  disap- 
peared so  suddenly  from  the  Grange  there  were  some 
persons  who  believed  that  he  had  been  foully  mur- 
dered?" 

Tom  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair.  "John 
Vansittart,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 

"  The  affair,"  continued  Peter,  "  was  never  cleared 
up." 


FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS.  261 

"  It  was  never  cleared  up,"  said  Tom.  "  But  why/' 
he  added,  "  do  you  return  to  this  subject  ?  " 

"  You  may  well  ask,"  said  Peter,  "  why  I  return  to 
it." 

And  so  on.  There  is  so  much  of  this  kind  of  thing 
in  my  recent  novels  that  if  all  the  lines  of  it  were 
placed  on  end  I  daresay  they  would  reach  round  the 
world.  Yet  I  am  never  charged  with  padding  now. 
My  writing  is  said  to  be  beautifully  lucid.  My 
shipwreck  has  made  several  intelligent  critics  ask 
if  I  have  ever  been  a  sailor,  though  I  don't  mind 
saying  here,  that,  like  Douglas  Jerrold,  I  only  dote 
upon  the  sea  from  the  beach.  I  have  been  to  Dover, 
but  no  further,  and  you  will  find  my  shipwreck  told 
(more  briefly)  in  Marryat.  I  dashed  it  off  less  than 
two  months  ago,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not 
say  whether  my  ship  was  scuttled,  or  went  on  fire, 
or  sprang  a  leak.  Henceforth  I  shall  only  refer  to 
it  as  the  shipwreck,  and  my  memory  will  do  all  that 
is  required  of  it  if  it  prevents  my  mistaking  the 
novel  that  contains  the  shipwreck.  Even  if  I  did 
that,  however,  I  know  from  experience  that  my  repu- 
tation would  be  as  safe  as  the  lives  of  my  leading 
characters.  I  began  my  third  novel,  meaning  to 
make  my  hero  something  of  a  coward,  but  though  I 
worked  him  out  after  that  pattern  for  a  time,  I  have 
changed  my  plan.  He  is  to  be  peculiarly  heroic 
henceforth.  This  will  not  lose  me  my  reputation. 
It  will  be  said  of  my  hero  that  he  is  drawn  with  no 


262  FOUR-IN-HAND  NOVELISTS. 

ordinary  skill,  and  that  the  author  sees  the  two-sided- 
ness  of  every  man's  character.  As  for  the  fourth 
story,  it  is  the  second  one  over  again,  with  the  ship- 
wreck omitted.  One  night  when  I  did  not  have  a 
chapter  to  write — a  rare  thing  with  me — I  read  over 
the  first  part  of  this  fourth  tale — another  rare  thing — 
and  found  it  so  slip-shod  as  to  be  ungrammatical. 
The  second  chapter  is  entirely  taken  up  with  a  dis- 
quisition on  bald  heads,  but  the  humor  of  it  will  be 
said  to  increase  my  reputation.  Sometimes  when  I 
become  despondent  of  ever  losing  my  reputation,  I 
think  of  taking  a  whole  year  to  write  one  novel  in, 
just  to  see  what  I  really  could  do.  I  wonder  whether 
the  indulgent  public  would  notice  any  difference? 
Perhaps  I  could  not  write  carefully  now  if  I  tried. 
The  small  section  of  the  public  that  guesses  which  of 
the  four-in-hand  writers  I  am  may  think  for  a  mo- 
ment that  this  story  of  how  I  tried  in  vain  to  lose  my 
reputation  will  help  me  toward  the  goal.  They  are 
wrong,  however.  The  public  will  stand  anything 
from  us  now — or  they  would  get  something  better. 


«Q." 

A  yeae  or  two  ago  it  was  observed  that  three 
writers  were  using  the  curiously  popular  signature 
"  Q."  This  was  hardly  less  confusing  than  that  one 
writer  should  use  three  signatures  (Grant  Allen, 
Arbuthnot  Wilson,  and  Anon),  but  as  none  of  the 
three  was  willing  to  try  another  letter,  they  had  to 
leave  it  to  the  public  (whose  decision  in  such  mat- 
ters is  final)  to  say  who  is  Q  to  it.  The  public  said, 
"  Let  him  wear  this  proud  letter  who  can  win  it," 
and  for  the  present  at  least  it  is  in  the  possession 
of  the  author  of  "The  Splendid  Spur"  and  "The 
Blue  Pavilions."  It  would  seem,  too,  as  if  it  were 
his  "to  keep,"  for  £CQ"  is  like  the  competition 
cups  that  are  only  yours  for  a  season,  unless  you 
manage  to  carry  them  three  times  in  succession. 
Mr.  Quiller  -  Couch  has  been  champion  Q  since 
1890. 

The  interesting  question  is  not  so  much,  What 
has  he  done  to  be  the  only  prominent  Q  of  these 
years !  as  Is  he  to  be  the  Q  of  all  time  %  If  so, 
he  will  do  better  work  than  he  has  yet  done,  though 
several  of  his  latest  sketches — and  one  in  particu- 


264  "  Q." 

lar— are  of  very  uncommon  merit.  Mr.  Quiller- 
Couch  is  so  unlike  Mr.  Kipling  that  one  immediately 
wants  to  compare  them.  They  are  both  young,  and 
they  have  both  shown  such  promise  that  it  will  be 
almost  sad  if  neither  can  write  a  book  to  live— as,  of 
course,  neither  has  done  as  yet.  Mr.  Kipling  is  the 
more  audacious,  which  is  probably  a  matter  of  train- 
ing. He  was  brought  up  in  India,  where  one's 
beard  grows  much  quicker  than  at  Oxford,  and 
where  you  not  only  become  a  man  (and  a  cynic)  in  a 
hurry,  but  see  and  hear  strange  things  (and  print 
them)  such  as  the  youth  of  Oxford  miss,  or,  becom- 
ing acquainted  with,  would  not  dare  insert  in  the 
local  magazine  of  the  moment.  So  Mr.  Kipling's 
first  work  betokened  a  knowledge  of  the  world  that 
is  by  no  means  to  be  found  in  "  Dead  Man's  Bock," 
the  first  book  published  by  Mr.  Quiller-Couch.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  cannot  truly  be  said  that  Mr.  Kip- 
ling's latest  work  is  stronger  than  his  first,  while 
the  other  writer's  growth  is  the  most  remarkable 
thing  about  him.  It  is  precisely  the  same  Mr.  Kip- 
ling who  is  now  in  the  magazines  that  was  writing 
some  years  ago  in  India  (and  a  rare  good  Mr.  Kip- 
ling, too),  but  the  Mr.  Quiller-Couch  of  to-day  is  the 
Quiller-Couch  of  "  Dead  Man's  Eock  "  grown  out  of 
recognition.  To  compare  their  styles  is  really  to 
compare  the  men.  Mr.  Kipling's  is  the  more  start- 
ling, the  stronger  (as  yet),  and  the  more  mannered. 
Mark  Twain,  it  appears,  said  he  reads  Mr.  Kipling 


"  <2."  265 

for  his  style,  which  is  really  the  same  thing  as  saying 
you  read  him  for  his  books,  though  the  American 
seems  only  to  have  meant  that  he  eats  the  beef  be- 
cause he  likes  the  salt.  It  is  a  journalistic  style, 
aiming  too  constantly  at  sharp  effects,  always  suc- 
ceeding in  getting  them.  Sometimes  this  is  con- 
trived at  the  expense  of  grammar,  as  when  (a  com- 
mon trick  with  the  author)  he  ends  a  story  with  such 
a  paragraph  as  "  Which  is  manifestly  unfair."  Mr. 
Quiller-Couch  has  never  sinned  in  this  way,  but  his 
first  style  was  somewhat  turgid,  even  melodramatic, 
and  compared  with  Mr.  Kipling's,  lacked  distinction. 
From  the  beginning  Mr.  Kipling  had  the  genius 
for  using  the  right  word  twice  in  three  times  (Mr. 
Stevenson  only  misses  it  about  once  in  twelve), 
while  Mr.  Quiller-Couch  not  only  used  the  wrong 
word,  but  weighted  it  with  adjectives.  The  charge, 
however,  cannot  be  brought  against  him  to-day,  for 
having  begun  by  writing  like  a  Mr.  Haggard  not 
quite  sure  of  himself  (if  one  can  imagine  such  a  Mr. 
Haggard),  and  changing  to  an  obvious  imitation  of 
Mr.  Stevenson,  he  seems  now  to  have  made  a  style 
for  himself.  It  is  clear  and  careful,  but  not  as  yet 
strong-winged.  Its  distinctive  feature  is  that  it  is 
curiously  musical. 

"Dead  Man's  Bock"  is  a  capital  sensational  story 
to  be  read  and  at  once  forgotten.  It  was  followed  by 
"The  Astonishing  History  of  Troy  Town,"  which 
was  humorous,  and  proved  that  the  author  owed  a 


266  "  q." 

debt  to  Dickens.  But  it  was  not  sufficiently  humor- 
ous to  be  remarkable  for  its  humor,  and  it  will  go 
hand  in  hand  with  "  Dead  Man's  Eock  "  to  oblivion. 
Until  "The  Splendid  Spur"  appeared  Mr.  Quiller- 
Couch  had  done  little  to  suggest  that  an  artist  had 
joined  the  ranks  of  the  story-tellers.  It  is  not  in 
any  way  a  great  work,  but  it  was  among  the  best 
dozen  novels  of  its  year,  and  as  the  production  of  a 
new  writer  it  was  one  of  the  most  notable.  About 
the  same  time  was  published  another  historical  ro- 
mance of  the  second  class  (for  to  nothing  short  of 
Sir  Walter  shall  we  give  a  first-class  in  this  depart- 
ment), "Micah  Clarke,"  by  Mr.  Conan  Doyle.  It 
was  as  inevitable  that  the  two  books  should  be  com- 
pared as  that  he  who  enjoyed  the  one  should  enjoy 
the  other.  In  one  respect  "  Micah  Clarke  "  is  the 
better  story.  It  contains  one  character,  a  soldier  of 
fortune,  who  is  more  memorable  than  any  single  fig- 
ure in  "  The  Splendid  Spur."  This,  however,  is 
effected  at  a  cost,  for  this  man  is  the  book.  It  con- 
tains, indeed,  two  young  fellows,  one  of  them  a  John 
Ridd,  but  no  Diana  Vernon  would  blow  a  kiss  to 
either.  Both  stories  are  weak  in  pathos,  despite 
Joan,  but  there  are  a  score  of  humorous  situations 
in  "  The  Splendid  Spur"  that  one  could  not  forget  if 
he  would — which  he  would  not — as,  for  instance, 
where  hero  and  heroine  are  hidden  in  barrels  in  a 
ship,  and  hero  cries  through  his  bunghole,  "  Wilt 
marry  me,  sweetheart  ? "  to  which  heroine  replies, 


"  Q."  267 

"  Must  get  out  of  this  cask  first."  Better  still  is  the 
scene  in  which  Captain  Billy  expatiates,  with  a  mop 
and  a  bucket,  on  the  merits  of  his  crew.  But  the 
passages  are  for  reading,  not  for  hearing  about.  Of 
the  characters,  this  same  Captain  Billy  is  not  the 
worst,  but  perhaps  the  best  is  Joan,  Mr.  Quiller- 
Couch's  first  successful  picture  of  a  girl.  A  capital 
eccentric  figure  is  killed  (some  good  things  are 
squandered  in  this  book)  just  when  we  are  begin- 
ning to  find  him  a  genuine  novelty.  Anything  that 
is  ready  to  leap  into  danger  seems  to  be  thought 
good  enough  for  the  hero  of  a  fighting  romance,  so 
that  Jack  Marvel  will  pass  (though  Delia,  as  is  right 
and  proper,  is  worth  two  of  him,  despite  her  coming- 
on  disposition).  The  villain  is  a  failure,  and  the 
plot  poor.  Nevertheless  there  are  some  ingenious 
complications  in  it.  Jack's  escape  by  means  of  the 
hangman's  rope,  which  was  to  send  him  out  of  the 
world  in  a  few  hours,  is  a  fine  rollicking  bit  of  sen- 
sation. Where  Mr.  Quiller-Couch  and  Mr.  Conan 
Doyle  both  fail  as  compared  with  the  great  master 
of  romance  is  in  the  introduction  of  historical  fig- 
ures and  episodes.  Scott  would  have  been  a  great 
man  ii  he  had  written  no  novel  but  "  The  Abbot  " 
(one  of  his  second  best),  and  no  part  of  "  The  Abbot " 
but  the  scene  in  which  Mary  signs  away  her  crown. 
Mr.  Quiller-Couch  almost  entirely  avoids  such 
attempts,  and  even  Mr.  Conan  Doyle  only  dips  into 
them  timidly.     There  is,  one  has  been  told,  a  theory 


268  "Q." 

that  the  romancist  has  no  right  to  picture  history 
in  this  way.  But  he  makes  his  rights  when  he  does 
it  as  Scott  did  it. 

Since  "The  Splendid  Spur,"  Mr.  Quiller-Couch 
has  published  nothing  in  book  form  which  can  be 
considered  an  advance  on  his  best  novel,  but  there 
have  appeared  by  him  a  number  of  short  Cornish 
sketches,  which  are  perhaps  best  considered  as  ex- 
periments. They  are  perilously  slight,  and  where 
they  are  successful  one  remembers  them  as  sweet 
dreams  or  like  a  bar  of  music.  All  aim  at  this 
effect,  so  that  many  should  not  be  taken  at  a  time, 
and  some  (as  was  to  be  expected  with  such  delicate 
work)  miss  their  mark.  It  might  be  said  that  in 
several  of  these  melodies  Mr.  Quiller-Couch  has 
been  writing  the  same  thing  again  and  again,  deter- 
mined to  succeed  absolutely,  if  not  this  time  then 
the  next,  and  if  not  the  next  then  the  time  after.  In 
one  case  he  has  succeeded  absolutely.  "  The  Small 
People  "  is  a  prose  "  Song  of  the  Shirt."  To  my 
mind  this  is  a  rare  piece  of  work,  and  the  biggest 
thing  for  its  size  that  has  been  done  in  English 
fiction  for  some  years. 

These  sketches  have  been  called  experiments. 
They  show  (as  his  books  scarcely  show)  that  Mr. 
Quiller-Couch  can  feel.  They  suggest  that  he  may 
be  able  to  do  for  Cornwall  what  Mr.  Hardy  has  done 
for  Dorset— though  the  methods  of  the  two  writers 
are  as  unlike  as  their  counties.    But  that  can  only 


"  ©."  269 

be  if  in  filling  his  note-book  with  these  little  come- 
dies and  tragedies  Mr.  Quiller-Couch  is  preparing 
for  more  sustained  efforts. 

11  Our  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee 
We  will  stand  and  mark." 


RULES  FOR  CARVING. 

Rule  I. — It  is  not  good  form  to  climb  onto  the  table. 
There  is  no  doubt  a  great  temptation  to  this. 
When  you  are  struggling  with  a  duck,  and  he  wob- 
bles over  just  as  you  think  you  have  him,  you  for- 
get yourself.  The  common  plan  is  not  to  leap  upon 
the  table  all  at  once.  This  is  the  more  usual  pro- 
cess :  The  carver  begins  to  carve  sitting.  By  and  by 
he  is  on  his  feet,  and  his  brow  is  contracted.  His 
face  approaches  the  fowl,  as  if  he  wanted  to  inquire 
within  about  everything  except  that  the  duck  is 
reluctant  to  yield  any  of  its  portions.  One  of  his 
feet  climbs  into  his  chair,  then  the  other.  His 
knees  are  now  resting  against  the  table,  and,  in  his 
excitement,  he,  so  to  speak,  flings  himself  upon  the 
fowl.    This  brings  us  to 

Rule  II — Carving  should  not  be  made  a  matter  of 
brute  force.  It  ought  from  the  outset  to  be  kept  in 
mind  that  you  and  the  duck  are  not  pitted  against 
each  other  in  mortal  combat.  Never  wrestle  with 
any  dish  whatever ;  in  other  words,  keep  your  head, 
and  if  you  find  yourself  becoming  excited,  stop  and 
count  a  hundred.  This  will  calm  you,  when  you 
can  begin  again. 


RULES  FOR  CARVING.  271 

Rule  III. — It  will  not  assist  you  to  call  the  fowl 
names.  This  rule  is  most  frequently  broken  by  a 
gentleman  carving  for  his  own  family  circle.  If 
there  are  other  persons  present,  he  generally  man- 
ages to  preserve  a  comparatively  calm  exterior,  just 
as  the  felon  on  the  scaffold  does  ;  but  in  privacy  he 
breaks  out  in  a  storm  of  invective.  If  of  a  sarcastic 
turn  of  mind,  he  says  that  he  has  seen  many  a  duck 
in  his  day,  but  never  a  duck  like  this.  It  is  double- 
jointed.  It  is  so  tough  that  it  might  have  come 
over  to  England  with  the  Conqueror. 

Rule  IV. — Don't  boast  ivhen  it  is  all  over.  You 
must  not  call  the  attention  of  the  company  to  the 
fact  that  you  have  succeeded.  Don't  exclaim  exult- 
ingly,  "  I  knew  I  would  manage  it,"  or  "  I  never  yet 
knew  a  duck  that  I  couldn't  conquer  somehow." 
Don't  exclaim  in  a  loud  gratified  voice  how  you  did 
it,  nor  demonstrate  your  way  of  doing  it  by  point- 
ing to  the  debris  with  the  carving  knife.  Don't  even 
be  mock-modest,  and  tell  everybody  that  carving  is 
the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  Don't  wipe  your 
face  repeatedly  with  your  napkin,  as  if  you  were  in 
a  state  of  perspiration,  nor  talk  excitedly,  as  if  your 
success  had  gone  to  your  head.  Don't  ask  your 
neighbors  what  they  think  of  your  carving.  Your 
great  object  is  to  convince  them  that  you  look  upon 
carving  as  the  merest  bagatelle,  as  something  that 
you  do  every  day  and  rather  enjoy. 


WHAT  IS  SCOTT'S  BEST  NOVEL? 

Mr.  Gladstone,  I  think,  pronounces  in  favor  of 
"  Kenilworth."  It  is  a  splendid  pageant,  and  per- 
haps, of  all  the  Waverleys,  tells  the  most  touching 
story,  yet  none  of  the  characters  is  of  the  first  order, 
and  Varney  makes  it  a  melodrama.  We  are  only 
told  of  Leicester's  accomplishments.  Alasco  is  not 
great  until  he  reappears  in  "  Quentin  Durward  "  as 
Galeotti.  Mike  Lambourne  is  good  if  we  can  for- 
get other  soldiers  of  fortune  who  are  better  (Dal- 
getty,  of  course,  heads  the  list).  Wayland  is  not 
one  man,  but  several.  Raleigh  is  merely  a  smart 
courtier.  In  this  novel,  indeed,  Scott  only  rises  to 
his  highest  for  five  minutes.  Elizabeth  all  but  ac- 
cepting Leicester's  hand,  and  next  moment  all  but 
sending  him  to  the  Tower,  is  as  immortal  as  the  de- 
feat of  the  Armada.  Compare  with  it  the  chapter  in 
"  The  Abbot "  in  which  Mary  is  forced  to  resign  her 
crown.  These  are  two  of  the  sublime  scenes  in  fic- 
tion, but  we  cannot  estimate  Scott  without  consider- 
ing them  together.  That  the  man  who  can  give  us 
such  a  Queen  Mary  should  also  have  sufficient  sym- 
pathy with  her  rival  to  give  us  such  a  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, is  astonishing.     This  is  what  it  is  to  have  a 


WHAT  IS  SCOTT'S  BEST  NOVEL?  273 

well-balanced  mind  as  well  as  to  be  a  genius.  Per- 
haps Mary  is  the  finest  of  all  Scott's  historical  char- 
acters, though  few  will  call  *  The  Abbot "  his  best 
novel.  The  first  third  of  it  is  dull  and  about  nothing 
in  particular.  Until  he  gets  away  from  the  atmos- 
phere of  "  The  Monastery  "  the  author  seems  to  have 
lost  the  knack.  To  me  "  The  Abbot "  opens  with 
Roland's  arrival  in  Edinburgh,  or,  if  a  little  before 
that,  with  the  damsel  he  met  on  the  way.  "  Woodr 
stock  "  is  by  no  means  in  the  first  class,  yet  it,  like 
"  Kenilworth,"  has  its  great  moment :  where  Charles 
consents  to  fight'  the  duel.  An  author's  great  mo- 
ments are  great  moments  to  his  readers  also.  Sud- 
denly we  know  what  is  coming,  and  our  blood  runs 
quicker,  and  we  are  as  delighted  as  if  it  was  we  who 
had  done  it.  No  other  British  novelist  produces 
these  effects  more  than  once  or  twice.  Thackeray 
does  it,  as  has  been  pointed  out  often,  in  the  scene 
where  Becky  admires  Bawdon  for  knocking  Lord 
Steyne  down.  He  does  it  again  in  the  last  chapter 
of  "  Esmond." 

Many  will  say  that  the  greatest  of  the  "Waverleys 
is  Scotch.  Yet  though  five  out  of  every  six  of  Scott's 
best  characters  are  Scotchmen,  it  does  not  follow 
that  any  one  of  the  Scotch  novels  is  greater  than 
any  one  of  the  other  novels.  "  Waverley  "  itself 
only  becomes  a  novel  by  losing  its  way,  so  to  speak. 
It  starts  off  with  the  intention  of  being  little  more 

than  a  record  of  travel.     The  hero,  too,  is  even  more 
18 


274  WHAT  IS  SCOTT'S  BEST  NOVEL? 

of  a  prig  than  usual.  "  Guy  Mannering  "  and  "  The 
Antiquary  "  are  probably  the  two  Scotch  novels  that 
would  receive  the  largest  number  of  votes  from  the 
public.  Of  these  I  think  the  second  much  the  bet- 
ter, though  it  has  less  of  the  glamour  of  romance. 
Dominie  Sampson  is  a  caricature  with  a  catchword,  as 
they  say  on  the  stage.  He  has  wandered  into  Scott 
out  of  Dickens.  Meg  Merrilies  was  a  favorite  type 
of  character  with  the  author,  but  she  is,  to  be  blunt, 
something  of  a  bore.  She  belongs  to  the  footlights. 
But  think  of  the  Edinburgh  scenes  !  It  was  impos- 
sible for  Scott  to  write  about  Edinburgh  without 
at  once  becoming  inspired.  The  name  was  enough. 
It  was  charged  with  romance.  It  wrought  on  his 
spirit  like  wine.  Down  he  sat,  and  turned  off  reams 
of  delight.  Nevertheless,  though  the  Edinburgh  of 
*  Waverley,"  "  The  Abbot,"  and  "  The  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian "  is  for  reading  about  at  least  once  a  year,  it  is 
ill-treating  one's  self  not  to  turn  to  the  Edinburgh  of 
"  Guy  Mannering"  every  six  months.  But  I  am  not 
giving  up  "  The  Antiquary."  It  is  the  best  of  the 
Scotch  Waverleys.  Monkbarns  and  Edie,  and  the  sis- 
ter of  Monkbarns,  and  a  certain  fish-wife,  and  the  post- 
office  of  Fairport — where  shall  we  find  the  like  in  one 
book  ?  Lovel's  history  and  Dousterswivel's  schemes 
are  of  no  account,  but  no  effort  is  required  to  forget 
them.      Think  of  Steenie's  death,  and  it  is  done. 

Nearly  every  year  Scottish  theatre-managers  "put 
on  "  a  semi-operatic  adaptation  of  "  Rob  Roy,"  and 


WHAT  IS  SCOTT'S  BUST  NOVEL?  275 

the  piece  never  fails  to  attract.  This  is  so  much 
the  most  popular  of  Scott's  novels  when  deformed 
into  acts,  that  there  may  be  a  public  which  con- 
siders "  Rob  Roy  "  his  masterpiece.  Certainly  others 
of  his  stories  would  adapt  as  well,  or  as  ill.  But 
probably  it  is  Rob's  personality  that  takes  the 
hearts  of  theatre-goers.  The  book  is  hardly  among 
the  author's  six  best,  though  it  is  better  than  "  The 
Bride  of  Lammermoor,"  which  is  second  favorite 
with  the  playwrights.  There  are  two  figures  in 
"  Old  Mortality  "  quite  good  enough  to  be  in  "  The 
Antiquary,"  Mause  Headrigg  and  Cuddie.  I  would 
not  complain  if  told  that  Mause  was  one  mark  better 
than  even  Edie  Ochiltree.  But,  like  "  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian,"  the  story  suffers  by  its  long-drawn- 
out  ending.  u  The  Heart  of  Midlothian  "  has  one 
claim  for  first  place.  It  contains  Scott's  only 
heroine — if  by  heroine  we  mean  the  young  woman 
who  is  loved  by  the  nominal  hero.  "  The  Fair  Maid 
of  Perth,"  again,  contains  Scott's  only  interesting 
hero.  Jeanie  Deans  and  Hal  o  ■  the  Wynd  are  of 
lower  social  rank  than  any  others  of  Scott's  heroines 
and  heroes.  They  are  almost  the  only  ones  who  do 
not  speak  of  their  ancestors.  As  a  recompense,  they 
are  human.  To  Scott  it  is  usually  enough  if  his 
hero  is  a  pretty  fighter,  of  a  daring  temper,  or  a 
melancholy  cast  of  countenance.  He  seems  to  fear 
getting  upon  intimate  terms  with  these  heroes.  Or 
perhaps  he  had  a  notion  that  high-spirited  young 


276  WHAT  IS  SCOTT'S  BEST  NOVEL* 

gentlemen  are  much  alike.  His  heroines  are  beau- 
tiful, and  what  more  can  a  hero  want  1  But  Jeanie 
and  Hal  are  treated  with  humor,  and  we  know  them 
as  a  consequence  as  well  as  if  they  were  only  people 
whom  the  hero  and  heroine  had  met  on  the  road. 
Obviously,  then,  not  even  Scott's  greatest  novel  is 
perfect.  Each  of  the  dozen  chief  ones  has  its  out- 
standing merits,  and  fails  where  some  other  is 
strongest.  If  there  is  an  exception  it  is  "The 
Legend  of  Montrose."  It  is  only  a  sketch,  perhaps, 
but  what  would  one  like  to  see  out  of  it  ? 

"  Ivanhoe  "  is  best.  It  contains  characters  nearly 
as  good  as  Monkbarns  and  the  rest,  the  story  is 
nearly  as  interesting  as  "Kenil worth."  Together 
these  are  the  most  brilliant  historical  novels  ever 
written.  Eichard  is  nearly  as  good  as  Queen  Mary. 
But  Ivanhoe  stands  apart.  On  the  whole  it  is  the 
most  delightful  thing  in  English  fiction.  Who 
would  dare  to  draw  a  tournament  after  that  one  of 
Scott's  ?  He  has  stopped  the  attempt  as  thoroughly 
as  by  act  of  Parliament.  And  even  as  tournaments 
are  his,  so  are  Kobin  Hood  and  his  merry  men.  As 
if  the  Saxons  and  Isaac  of  York  and  Eichard  and 
the  siege  of  Torquilstone  were  not  enough,  he  has 
flung  in  Eebecca  and  the  Templar,  to  show  that  he 
is  not  "  subjective "  merely  because  to  be  u  ob- 
jective "  is  better.  Scott's  greatest  day  was  when 
he  decided  to  finish  "  Waverley."  Next  comes  the 
day  when  he  sat  down  to  write  "  Ivanhoe." 


MY   FAVORITE   AUTHORESS. 

Just  out  of  the  four-mile  radius — to  give  the 
cabby  his  chance — is  a  sleepy  lane,  lent  by  the 
country  to  the  town,  and  we  have  only  to  open  a 
little  gate  off  it  to  find  ourselves  in  an  old-fashioned 
garden.  The  house,  with  its  many  quaint  windows, 
across  which  evergreens  spread  their  open  fingers 
as  a  child  makes  believe  to  shroud  his  eyes,  has  a 
literary  look — at  least,  so  it  seems  to  me,  but  per- 
haps this  is  because  I  know  the  authoress  who  is  at 
this  moment  advancing  down  the  walk  to  meet  me. 

She  has  hastily  laid  aside  her  hoop,  and  crosses 
the  grass  with  the  dignity  that  becomes  a  woman  of 
letters.  Her  hair  falls  over  her  forehead  in  an  at- 
tractive way,  and  she  is  just  the  proper  height  for 
an  authoress.  The  face,  so  open  that  one  can  watch 
the  process  of  thinking  out  a  new  novel  in  it,  from 
start  to  finish,  is  at  times  a  little  careworn,'  as  if  it 
found  the  world  weighty,  but  at  present  there  is  a 
gracious  smile  on  it,  and  she  greets  me  heartily 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  strays  to  her  neck, 
to  make  sure  that  her  lace  collar  is  lying  nicely.  It 
would  be  idle  to  pretend  that  she  is  much  more  than 
eight  years  old,  "  but  then  Maurice  is  only  six." 


278  MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS. 

Like  most  literary  people  who  put  their  friends 
into  books,  she  is  very  modest,  and  it  never  seems  to 
strike  her  that  I  would  come  all  this  way  to  see  her. 

"Mamma  is  out,"  she  says  simply,  "but  she  will 
be  back  soon ;  and  papa  is  at  a  meeting,  but  he  will 
be  back  soon,  too." 

I  know  what  meeting  her  papa  is  at.  He  is  crazed 
with  admiration  for  Stanley,  and  can  speak  of  noth- 
ing but  the  Emin  Relief  Expedition.  While  he  is 
away  proposing  that  Stanley  should  get  the  free- 
dom of  Hampstead,  now  is  my  opportunity  to  inter- 
view the  authoress. 

"  Won't  you  come  into  the  house  ? " 

I  accompany  the  authoress  to  the  house,  while  we 
chat  pleasantly  on  literary  topics. 

"  Oh,  there  is  Maurice,  silly  boy ! " 

Maurice  is  too  busy  shooting  arrows  into  the 
next  garden  to  pay  much  attention  to  me ;  and  the 
authoress  smiles  at  him  good-naturedly. 

"I  hope  you'll  stay  to  dinner,"  he  says  to  me, 
"because  then  we'll  have  two  kinds  of  pudding." 

The  authoress  and  I  give  each  other  a  look  which 
means  that  children  will  be  children,  and  then  we 
go  indoors. 

"  Are  you  not  going  to  play  any  more  ?  "  cries 
Maurice  to  the  authoress. 

She  blushes  a  little. 

"I  was  playing  with  him,"  she  explains,  "  to  keep 
him  out  of  mischief  till  mamma  comes  back." 


MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS.  279 

In  the  drawing-room  we  talk  for  a  time  of  ordi- 
nary matters — of  the  allowances  one  must  make  for  a 
child  like  Maurice,  for  instance — and  gradually  we 
drift  to  the  subject  of  literature.  I  know  literary 
people  sufficiently  well  to  be  aware  that  they  will 
talk  freely — almost  too  freely — of  their  work  if  ap- 
proached in  the  proper  spirit. 

"  Are  you  busy  just  now  ?  "  I  ask,  with  assumed 
carelessness,  and  as  if  I  had  not  been  preparing  the 
question  since  I  heard  papa  was  out. 

She  looks  at  me,  suspiciously,  as  authors  usually 
do  when  asked  such  a  question.  They  are  not  cer- 
tain whether  you  are  really  sympathetic.  However, 
she  reads  honesty  in  my  eyes. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  am  doing  a  little  thing."  (They  al- 
ways say  this.) 

"  A  story  or  an  article  ?  " 

"A  story." 

"  I  hope  it  will  be  good." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  don't  like  it  much."  (This  is 
another  thing  they  say,  and  then  they  wait  for  you 
to  express  incredulity.) 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  will  be  a  fine  thing.  Have 
you  given  it  a  name  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  always  write  the  name.  Sometimes 
I  don't  write  any  more." 

As  she  was  in  a  confidential  mood  this  seemed  an 
excellent  chance  for  getting  her  views  on  some  of 
the  vexed  literary  questions  of  the  day.     For  in- 


280  MY  FA  VOBITE  A  UTHORESS. 

stance,  everybody  seems  to  be  more  interested  in 
hearing  during  what  hours  of  the  day  an  author 
writes  than  in  reading  his  book. 

"  Do  you  work  best  in  the  early  part  of  the  day 
or  at  night?" 

"  I  write  my  stories  just  before  tea." 

"  That  surprises  me.  Most  writers,  I  have  been 
told,  get  through  a  good  deal  of  work  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Oh,  but  I  go  to  school  as  soon  as  breakfast  is 
over." 

"  And  you  don't  write  at  night  ?  " 

"  No ;  nurse  always  turns  the  gas  down." 

I  had  read  somewhere  that  among  the  novelist's 
greatest  difficulties  is  that  of  sustaining  his  own  in- 
terest in  a  novel  day  by  day  until  it  is  finished. 

"  Until  your  new  work  is  completed  do  you  fling 
your  whole  heart  and  soul  into  it  ?  I  mean,  do  you 
work  straight  on  at  it,  so  to  speak,  until  you  have 
finished  the  last  chapter  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

The  novelists  were  lately  reproved  in  a  review  for 
working  too  quickly,  and  it  was  said  that  one  wrote 
a  whole  novel  in  two  months. 

"  How  long  does  it  take  you  to  write  a  novel  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  a  long  novel  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  takes  me  nearly  an  hour." 

"  For  a  really  long  novel  1 " 


MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS.  2S1 

"  Yes,  in  three  volumes.  I  write  in  three  exercise- 
books — a  volume  in  each." 

"  You  write  very  quickly." 

"  Gf  course,  a  volume  doesn't  fill  a  whole  exercise- 
book.  They  are  penny  exercise-books.  I  have  a 
great  many  three-volume  stories  in  the  three  exer- 
cise-books." 

"  But  are  they  really  three-volume  novels  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  they  are  in  chapters,  and  one  of  thorn 
has  twenty  chapters." 

"  And  how  many  chapters  are  there  in  a  page  ?  " 

"  Not  very  many." 

Some  authors  admit  that  they  take  their  charac- 
ters from  real  life,  while  others  declare  that  they 
draw  entirely  upon  their  imagination. 

"Do  you  put  real  people  into  your  novels  ?  " 

"Yes,  Maurice  and  other  people,  but  generally 
Maurice." 

"  I  have  heard  that  some  people  are  angry  with 
authors  for  putting  them  into  books." 

"  Sometimes  Maurice  is  angry,  but  I  can't  always 
make  him  an  engine-driver,  can  I  ?  " 

"  No.  I  think  it  is  quite  unreasonable  on  his  part 
to  expect  it.  I  suppose  he  likes  to  be  made  an  en- 
gine-driver'?" 

"■He  is  to  be  an  engine-driver  when  he  grows  up, 
he  says.     He  is  a  silly  boy,  but  I  love  him." 

"What  else  do  you  make  him  in  your  books  ?  " 

"  To-day  I  made  him  like  Stanley,  because  I  think 


282  MY  FAVORITE  AUTHORESS. 

that  is  what  papa  would  like  him  to  be ;  and  yester- 
day he  was  papa,  and  I  was  his  coachman." 

"  He  would  like  that  ?  " 

"  No,  he  wanted  me  to  be  papa  and  him  the  coach- 
man. Sometimes  I  make  him  a  pirate,  and  he  likes 
that,  and  once  I  made  him  a  girl." 

"  He  would  be  proud  ?  " 

"That  was  the  day  he  hit  me.  He  is  awfully 
angry  if  I  make  him  a  girl,  silly  boy.  Of  course  he 
doesn't  understand." 

"  Obviously  not.  But  did  you  not  punish  him  for 
being  so  cruel  as  to  hit  you  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  turned  him  into  a  cat,  but  he  said  he  would 
rather  be  a  cat  than  a  girl.  You  see  he's  not  much 
more  than  a  baby — though  I  was  writing  books  at 
his  age." 

"Were  you  ever  charged  with  plagiarism?  I 
mean  with  copying  your  books  out  ot  other  people's 
books." 

"  Yes,  often." 

Si  I  suppose  that  is  the  fate  of  all  authors.  I  am 
told  that  literary  people  write  best  in  an  old 
coat " 

"  Oh,  I  like  to  be  nicely  dressed  when  I  am  writ- 
ing. Here  is  papa,  and  I  do  believe  he  has  another 
portrait  of  Stanley  in  his  hand.  Mamma  will  be  so 
annoyed." 


Marie  Corellts  Works. 

"  An  author  exhibiting  rare  skill  as  a  fascinating  and  highly 

instructive  writer  on  the  profoundest   themes 

which  can  engage  human  attention." 

A  POWERFUL  PSYCHOLOGICAL  ROMANCE. 

THE   SOUL  OF   LILITH. 
By  MARIE  CORELLI,  author  of  "  Ardath,"  "  Wormwood," 
etc.     1 2 mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

•'  A  novel  of  high  purpose  and  artistic  execution,  chaste  and  elevating  in  tone." 

—New  York  World. 

"The    best   mystical   story    that    has   appeared  since  the  days  of  Bulwer's 

*  Zanoni.'  " — Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

"  Original  in  essence,  radical  in  suggestion,  startling  in  development.  *  The^oul 
of  Lilith'  is  not  a  book  to  hurry  through  and  dismiss.  It  deserves  and  demands 
thought  and  repays  it.  There  must  be  many  who  are  waiting  for  such  a  vindication 
of  the  ways  of  God  to  men,  and  to  those  the  book  will  bring  a  strength  and  comfort 
that  no  words  can  express."— Boston  Times. 

WORMWOOD. 

By   MARIE   CORELLI,   author   of  ■"  A    Romance   of  Two 
Worlds,"  "Ardath,"  etc.    i2mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00. 

**  A  strange  and  fascinating  book." — New  York  World. 

**  The  work  thrills  with  the  intellectual  energy  of  a  brilliant  woman." 

— Detroit  Tribune. 

"  This  strong  romance  is  an  extremely  realistic  study  of  the  horrible  demorali- 
zation caused  by  the  absinthe  habit.  Miss  Corelli  has  handled  her  terrible  theme 
with  true  vigor  and  efficiency,  together  with  artistic  reserve  and  moderation.     In 

*  Wormwood '  Miss  Corelli  has  scored  a  real  success,  employing  to  a  worthy  end  an 
art  in  the  line  of  the  most  popular  French  writers." — Boston  Literary  World. 

THELMA. 
A  Norwegian  Princess.     By   MARIE  CORELLI,   author  of 
"A  Romance  of  Two   Worlds,"    "Wormwood,"    etc. 
i2mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00;   paper,  50  cents. 

"  'Thelma'  is  a  beautiful  creation,  and  the  portion  of  the  romance  which  deals 
with  Norwegian  life  is  full  of  charm  and  interest." — Charleston  News  and  Courier. 

"One  of  the  strongest  stories  that  has  appeared  this  season.  It  is  laid  in 
Norway  and  the  field  in  itself  adds  interest  to  the  story,  but  outside  from  this,  it  is 
delightfully  written  and  is  altogether  a  charming  tale.  ' 

— Minneapolis  Commercial  Bulletin. 

M  A  novel  that  should  be  read  when  appreciation  needs  no  spur,  for  it  is  one  that 
will  engage  the  reader's  best  attention.  The  characters  have  been  carefully  studied 
and  are  pictured  with  equal  care  and  an  effect  of  reality." — Boston  Times. 

Lovell,   Coryell  &  Company,   Publishers,  New  York. 


Marie  Corellfs  Works. 


VENDETTA,  AND  MY  WONDERFUL  WIFE. 

By  MARIE  CORELLI,  author  of  "The  Soul  of  Lilith," 
"  Wormwood, "  etc.  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00 ;  paper, 
50  cents. 

In  all  of  Marie  Corelli's  writings  there  is  a  vein  of  weird  mysticism  which  sug- 
gests the  fascination  which  the  snake  is  said  to  exercise  over  a  bird.  This  is 
particularly  true  of  "  Vendetta."  The  reader  is  unconsciously  drawn  on  from  page 
to  page  by  an  absorbing  interest  which  is  so  intense  that  an  interruption  is  almost 
like  an  awakening  from  the  dreams  of  sleep. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  TWO  WORLDS. 
By  MARIE  CORELLI,  author  of  M  Wormwood, "  "The  Soul 
of  Lilith, "  etc.    i2mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00  ;  paper,  50  cents. 

"  A  Romance  of  Two  Worlds  "  by  Marie  Corelli  has  been  one  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful novels  published  in  America  during  the  last  five  years  The  field  of  occultism 
is  invaded  by  this  most  delightful  author  and  it  is  with  difficulty  that  one  prevents 
the  belief  that  actual  experiences  are  being  related.  It  would  seem  from  the  text 
that  there  are  those  who  have  received  the  gift  of  peering  into  the  mysteries  of  the 
future  and  depicting  its  events  as  graphically  as  does  the  historian  the  events 
of  the  past. 

ARDATH. 

By  MARIE  CORELLI,  author  of  "The  Soul  of  Lilith," 
"Wormwood,"  etc.  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00;  paper,  50 
cents. 

One  of  the  most  popular  of  the  works  of  Marie  Corelli  is  "  Ardath,"  a  new  and 
pleasing  edition  of  which  is  now  ready.  It  seems  almost  incredible  that  an  author 
of  such  comparative  youth  should  have  written  so  many  works  of  such  universally 
high  order. 

COMPLETE  WORKS  OF  MARIE  CORELLI. 
In  sets,  i2mo,  cloth,  6  vols.,  $6.00. 
Same,  half  calf,  $12.00. 


H 


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Publishers. 

%mm Send  for  complete  catalogue  of  new  and  standard  publications, 

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The  Works  of  J.  M.  Barrie, 

44  Gbe  SMcfcens  of  Scotland" 

WHEN  A   MAN'S   SINGLE. 

By  J.  M.  Barrie.     l2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  #1.00;  paper,  50 

cents. 

"  A  remarkably  interesting  novel  because  of  its  vivid  character-drawing  and  the 
skill  with  which  a  scene  is  brought  before  the  eye  by  a  few  sharp  touches." 

— Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 
14  A  budget  of  quaint  conceits,  witty  epigrams,  and  Barrie's  own  peculiar  humor." 

— New  York  World. 
M  The  language  in  v  When  a  Man's  Single  '  is  undefiled  by  one   extravagance  or 
indifference,  and   his  delicious  sketches  of  English  newspaper  routine  are  brimful  of 
life-like  color  and  rich  humor." — Chicago  News. 

AN  EDINBURGH    ELEVEN. 

Pencil  Portraits  from  College  Life.    By  J.  M.  Barrie.    12mo, 
cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.00. 

A  series  of  delightful  character  sketches,  in  the  reminiscent  vein,  of  university 
professors  identified  with  Barrie's  college  life.  All  the  charming  characteristics  of 
the  author  are  present  in  this  volume  without  the  stumbling  block  of  the  Scottish 
dialect. 

BETTER   DEAD,  and 

MY   LADY  NICOTINE. 

By  J.  M.  Barrie.    l2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.00. 

The  same  delicacy  of  touch,  the  same  multiplicity  of  ideas,  presented  in  short, 
pregnant  sentences,  clear  cut  and  telling  to  a  marked  degree,  is  conspicuous  in 
Barrie's  first  work  as  well  as  in  his  last.  •'  Better  Dead,"  a  strong  character  sketch, 
gives  evidence  of  this,  and  from  those  who  read  the  story,  it  will  call  forth  another 
vote  of  praise  for  the  author  of  "'The  Little  Minister." 

"  My  Lady  Nicotine  "  is  a  veritable  "  study  in  smoke,"  and  will  therefore  appeal 
the  more  strongly  to  those  who  are  lovers  of  the  weed.  Yet  in  no  sense  are  these 
delightful  essays  for  one  class  only,  for  no  one  can  fail  to  appreciate  their  delicate 
humor  and  fine  character  sketching,  as  well  as  their  unmistakable  literary  value. 


H 


BARRIE'S   COMPLETE  WORKS. 

In  a  neat  box,  6  vols.,  beveled  cloth,  gilt  top,  #6.25 ;  half 
calf,  #12.00. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent,  upon  receipt  of  price,  by  the  publishers* 
Send  for  complete  catalogue  of  standard  works  and  recent  issues* 

Lovell,   Coryell  &  Company,   Publishers,  New  York. 


The  Works  of  J.  M.  Barrie, 

"Zbe  Dickens  of  Scotland." 


"  Mr.  Barrie  is  dowered  with  a  photographic  power  of  reproducing  what  he  sees, 
a  humor  which  plays  gently  around  whatever  topic  it  touches,  and  a  style  distinctive 
in  the  possession  of  certain  qualities  as  irresistible  as  they  are  delightful." 

— Philadelphia  Press. 
"  His  humor  is  as  fresh  as  his  pathos,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  subtle  complexi- 
ties of  Scotch  character  go  far  beyond  that  of  his  predecessors." 

—BqsAqv,  Literary  World* 

THE  LITTLE    MINISTER. 

By  J.  M.  Barrie.    New  edition,  with  full-page  illustrations. 
12mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25 ;  paper,  50  cents. 

"  '  The  Little  Minister !  is  a  great  novel." — New  York  Press. 

"  The  story  is  sweet  and  human  from  the  first  word  to  the  last." 

— SI.  Paul  Globe. 

"A  work  of  front-rank  importance."— Philadelphia  Press. 

"  '  The  Little  Minister '  is  a  masterpiece.  There  is  not  a  mistake 
in  it.  Every  character  is  perfectly  natural,  not  a  word  nor  an 
action  is  artificial." — Kansas  City  Star. 

M  An  uncommonly  strong  novel,  full  of  the  most  effective  con- 
trasts and  tb>e  most  piquant  scenes  of  Scotch  life." 

— New  York  Tribune. 


A 
LITERARY 
MARVEL. 


A   WINDOW  IN  THRUMS. 

By  J.  M.  Barrie.    l2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  #1.00;  paper,  50 
cents. 

M  A  work  which  will  long  retain  many  admirers,  for  its  cleverness,  delightful 
character-drawing,  and  freshness  are  more  than  fleeting."—  Boston  Times. 

"  The  simplicity  which  marks  ■  A  Window  in  Thrums '  is  delightful.  The  quaint 
Scotch  dialect  adds  to  its  pathos  and  dignity,  and  it  is  full  of  homely  wit  and  sym- 
pathy in  its  simple  annals.*— Boston  Globe. 

AULD   LICHT   IDYLLS. 

By  J.  M.  Barrie.    i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  #1.00;  paper,  50 
cents. 

'•  A  charming  collection  of  studies  of  Scotch  peasant  character  written  in  a 
delightful  manner.  There  is  uncommon  power  in  the  delineation  of  character,  and 
the  pathos  and  humor  of  the  book  are  in  Barrie's  best  vein.  In  brief,  these  studies 
are  of  exceptional  merit ;  remarkable  for  their  vivid  word  picturing  and  fidelity  to 
nature." — Providence  Journal. 

Lovell,  Coryell  &  Company,   Publishers,   New   York. 


